The Face of a Killer
by fountainpens
Summary: Begins in TV canon. Sansa leaves with the Hound after he comes to her room during the Battle of Blackwater Bay. He says he won't hurt her, she knows he won't, but she still has her fears to struggle with...as does he.
1. Chapter 1

**I initially published this story over at sansan_got, but with the school year commencing again, I had to put this aside for a while. I'm about to finish the semester, so I thought I'd start posting the chapters I already have here and continue writing over the holidays.**

This is TV canon, but as it progresses, the story pulls much more from book canon, which is why I'm posting it in the ASOIAF category. I don't want to spoil people who only watch the show, and I figure that most people who read the books watch the show.

Thanks to all the wonderful commenters at sansan_got who made some great suggestions, which I have implemented here for . There are some changes to the story as a result. Hope you all enjoy it!

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_You won't hurt me._

_No, little bird. I won't hurt you._

He began walking to the door, already realizing that this wasn't going to work. He offered her escape, freedom, even Winterfell, but she stayed. Fuck her too then. Everything had gone wrong tonight, so why would this be any different? He was one of the fiercest fighters of the Seven Kingdoms, but undone by a bit of fire. Now, he was in a girl's bedroom trying to find some heroism through her, but to no avail.

The clatter and crash of ceramic broke him from his reverie, and he turned back toward the girl he meant to leave behind. Her doll laid on the floor, shattered to pieces where she must have dropped it, and now she ran from one side of her room to the next, opening drawers and throwing a bundle onto her bed. He knew what she was up to and helped her with the bundle.

"How should we put this all together? Do you have something I could use in your rooms or...?"

"We don't have time for that, little bird. When we leave your room, it's straight to the stables."

"Fine." Sansa pulled the counterpane off her bed and tied the ends together around the few dresses and smallclothes she dared to take. She knew the Hound would not appreciate her bringing everything she owned, but she did need this little bit until they reached Robb's camps. She spun toward the Hound again and looked him full in the face. She was about to put her life in the hands of a true killer, something she hadn't done since her father died. She felt safer already.

"You're not ready yet," he said and quickly pulled all her hair down, obscuring as much of her face as possible. Then, he tugged off her jewels and the silver sash around her waist. "We've got to make you look common...which is no mean feat." Sandor smirked at her and threw her jewels on what was once her bed.

"Have you got a cloak in that sack of yours?"

"Oh no...I forgot. I don't know where-"

"We'll get mine when we pick up Stranger. I usually use it as a horse blanket, but it shouldn't stink too badly for a peasant girl like you." With that, he grabbed her wrist, looked quickly outside the door, and led her into the curiously still halls of the Red Keep.

As they walked, he rasped, "Don't you care to know who's winning the battle?"

"Lancel already came and said that we-the Lannisters, I mean-lost. Is that true?"  
"That's what it looked like when I left, but who knows. These things can often surprise you," he replied. "I hope they all burn though, especially the Imp." Sandor tugged her into a passage she'd never gone down before. Sansa couldn't help but wonder, though, what Sandor was doing with her now. Why wasn't he out in the battle? What went wrong? She thought of what Joffrey's face will look like when he learns that his faithful dog helped her escape. Sansa smiled and decided she'd ask Sandor about the battle later.

They weaved through servants' quarters, the kitchens, and finally emerged outside near the stables. Sandor could hear some of the horses whinnying, no doubt hearing the shouts of men and the crackling of wildfire, but his gaze locked on the two heads on spikes above the door.

"What in the seven hells?" He gasped. The little bird looked up with him, then chirped.

"That's the Queen's doing. They tried to leave with some platters and a horse, I think. She told Ser Ilyn to put their heads up as a warning to traitors." Sansa looked at the Hound then, realizing that they might be the greatest traitors of the night. This thought didn't seem to bother the Hound in the slightest though. He muttered, "Fucking whore," and pulled her into the stables where she met Stranger.

"Don't get too close, girl," he said sternly when she began to walk toward Stranger. "He'll knock your teeth right out if he doesn't know you, especially with this battle raging about us." Sandor pulled the white cloak off him and threw it toward her. Sansa pressed her face to it for a moment, hoping it didn't stink too terribly. It smelled like a horse and hay-two smells which she supposed she had to start getting used to.

"Give me your pack." He tied this to the back of the saddle he pulled off a hook near Stranger. Close by, he picked up a couple bedrolls and also tied those to the saddle. As he worked, he told her, "Wrap the cloak around yourself, especially your hair. We don't need any heroic arsehole figuring out who you are."

Sansa did as he said and stood waiting for his next direction. Instead, he just picked her up by the waist and placed her on Stranger. He quickly followed and led Stranger galloping out of the stables. Sansa grasped his arms at her sides after the first jolt and held on tightly.

The first heroic arsehole they met was stationed at one of the Red Keep's main gates. Sandor supposed the Imp had called for the men here to fall back to the Mud Gate. The lone man remaining turned when he heard Stranger's hooves and yelled, "By the Queen's command, all traitors escaping the Red Keep-." He never finished that command after Sandor sliced his head from his body with one swipe of his sword. He sheathed it and wrapped his sword arm around Sansa's waist.

They then broke through into the streets of King's Landing, which were chaotic to say the least. Smallfolk ran to and fro, most screaming of escape or even Stannis's name. Stranger trampled them down like so many leaves of grass. Sansa remembered what the Hound had done to Arya's friend on the Kingsroad and involuntarily flinched away from the man pressed against her back, riding as if the fires on the Blackwater raged only a few feet behind him. She heard the screams of those unfortunate enough to be in their way, and she closed her eyes against it all and pulled his cloak tighter around her face.

Sansa reminded herself that she was getting away from them all, going back to her family and with the Lannister's Hound. As the screams continued to filter through his sodden cloak, the euphoria of escaping, the romance of it all began to slip away, and she knew perhaps for the first time that the man pressed against her truly was a killer. She understood that his threats weren't just posturing-they were true.

Sandor continued riding through them all. He hardly noticed those who happened to fall beneath Stranger's hooves and those who managed to shrink around him. Behind the fires and the wine still sloshing around his mind, he felt a slight shame about the whole night and a hope that the little bird wouldn't hate him for it.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thank you for the kind reviews and messages for the first chapter! I hope you all enjoy this installment. :)**

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When Sansa woke from her fitful sleep against the Hound, the sky was already tinged slightly blue-dawn was approaching. She pushed herself forward, afraid that she might've caused him some discomfort during her rest. "Forgive me," she whispered.

"For what?"

"I fell asleep."

"It's fine," he replied. "I'll probably stop soon, once we get further down the Blackwater Rush."

The little bird sat rigidly in front of him now. As she slept before, he had time to think about their options. He told her they'd go North, to Winterfell, but from what he'd heard during Joffrey's meetings with his mother, the Young Wolf's encampment lied not too far north of Casterly Rock. Joff balked at the news as usual. Yet, he remembered how the Queen's face looked serious and almost disgusted at her son's nonchalance. Robb Stark must be right at their doorstep.

Riding through the Westerlands looking for the Northern army, however, didn't sound like the best idea. They may run into raids, skirmishes, perhaps even some Lannister troops. Given his new role as Lannister traitor, he knew his former comrades would not greet him warmly, especially not with an escaped Stark girl with him.

Perhaps, Riverrun was their best bet. He wanted to take the girl to Winterfell, as he promised her, but looking down on her resting against his chest, he wondered if she could make it for weeks and weeks all the way to the depths of the North. If he couldn't take her to her father's home, he'd take her to her mother's. Surely, they've set up some kind of garrison in Riverrun that would harbor the girl. After that, he thought the best option for himself was the Wall. Turn himself in there and do what he did best: kill. He'd be just one more craven added to the bunch. Surely, in a land of ice, fire was only used for warmth not battle.

After a few more hours of riding, Sandor brought Stranger to a halt near the river. It would take a while before the dead men of the night's battle would wash up on its banks. He pulled Sansa off the horse and placed her on the ground. She looked up at him with some anxiety. Fuck it all...was she already regretting her decision? Seeing him in the dawn is different than a darkened room. She shifted her eyes down, then back up at him warily.

"What is it?!" He couldn't help how loud he spoke the words, but she was already putting him on edge.

"I need to make water," she whispered. Sandor wondered if she saw the relief in his face over the fact that she just needed to piss.

"Go," he said. "You don't need to ask me for permission to do that or anything else. I'm not your captor."

With that, she walked over to Stranger, who surprisingly stayed still as she pulled her sack off his saddle. Sandor wondered why she'd need all that to go take a piss, but he thought that the less he knew the better and walked toward the river to wash off all the blood and the grime.

All that wine the Queen forced down Sansa's throat had caught up with her as they were riding. She hoped the Hound wouldn't ask about why she needed her bundle. Thankfully, she had the presence of mind to pack some extra cloths in with her smallclothes, since she still bled.

_Fitting isn't it? That the men will bleed out there, and you will bleed in here._

The man with her now had blood all over his armor, his hands, and his face, but she doubted that any of the blood was his. He didn't seem wounded, at least not enough to pull him from battle. Like he told her, he was a killer. She doubted that anyone could get close enough to him to do some killing of their own. Except his brother, of course.

As she righted her dress and made her way back to the Hound by the river, she remembered something else the Queen had told her that night. She explained what would happen to the women if the city were sacked and added...

_You'll be glad of your red flower then. When a man's blood is up, anything with tits looks good, and a precious thing like you will look very, very good. A slice of cake just waiting to be eaten._

Her steps faltered then. Just as she shrank from him in their ride through King's Landing, she couldn't help but keep her place now, staring at him as he lapped up the river's water. He won't hurt you, she thought to herself. He told her so. Of all the King's men, he'd never hit her. With a deep breath, she continued walking toward him.

Sandor heard the crunch of her steps as she walked out from behind the tree, then they stopped, and after a moment, they continued again. As he washed his hands in the water, she took a seat next to him and began washing her own. None of her chirping now. None of her thanks for getting her through King's Landing, like the last time she found herself out on those streets. The little bird kept her eyes focused on her hands and didn't say a word.

The doubts that flooded his mind as they rode through King's Landing returned now. He wondered how she felt about their ride through the city, and he even scarcely believed that she actually left with him. He glanced over at her and noticed the cut on her face from the riot, almost healed now. The sun reflecting off the river shined upon it, and he had to look away. His mouth twitched with these unsaid thoughts and emotions.

Before he could stop himself, he asked, "Did you enjoy what I did back there?"

"What do you mean, ser?" She asked, eyes still looking down into the water although her hands were clean; they never needed cleansing in the first place.

"Look at me!" He growled. "I told you that you'd have to start getting used to it. Look!" She finally raised her eyes toward him. "I'm not a knight, so don't call me 'ser'...ever. I'm the Hound. That's all." She still stared at him, but managed a stiff nod. "And I meant, how did you like our nice ride in King's Landing? Trampling over people, killing some, I'm sure. Did you think it was brave?"

"You told me there was no bravery in chasing off rats," she responded.

"Ah, there's the little bird," he said. "Repeating what others have told her before, just as you continued chirping about your 'love' for your King and your hatred for your traitor brother. Tell me, do you always repeat what others tell you to say? Even if it means insulting your own family?"

He had goaded her enough; he noticed how her eyes flashed now, as they did when she felt sure enough to slyly insult Joffrey to his face. Instead of answering his barb, however, she changed the subject.

"What happened in the battle? Were those rats too big, so you came running to my room?"

Sandor wasn't expecting that, but laughed nonetheless. Sansa Stark had just insulted him, called him craven, and now she slid further from him. If she knew what he'd told Joffrey and the Imp before leaving, she'd laugh as well and be glad he abandoned his men and his king. But no, she still thought honor meant serving your king-even if he's a sadistic fuck-and dying for a cause you hardly believed in anymore. He continued laughing, and she continued staring ahead with a hard look on her face.

"It had little to do with the size of the rats," he said and cupped some more water into his hands, splashing it on to his face and into his hair. Sansa looked at him then, as the water dripped down his scars. His wet hair was plastered against his head, which made the burns more gruesome than she'd ever cared to notice or perhaps she had never been this close to him before, aside from last night. Then, she realized what went wrong.

In her room, when she asked him where he meant to go, the first place he named was _Someplace that isn't burning_.

She remembered again the only thing that could get close enough to hurt him, almost kill him-his brother, the Mountain. He hurt the Hound with fire and left scars on his face that many believed he gained in some act of bravery, but instead they were the wounds of a complete victim.

"It was the fire, wasn't it?" She asked him, truly interested in his answer and heedless of the effect her question would have on him. He spun his head around toward her quizzically. "I know," she continued, almost sympathetically, "about what your brother did. How he-"

Before she finished, he lunged toward her and gripped her arms fiercely. His eyes were wild and raging. His face was dripping water onto her dress. She could feel the rage radiating from him; he held her so closely. Sansa remembered then how Littlefinger ended his story that day on the tourney grounds.

_If the Hound so much as heard you mention it, I'm afraid all the knights in King's Landing would not be able to save you._

Tears started to leak from her eyes.

He growled through clenched teeth, "Who told you?"

She continued crying and could only stutter, "I'm s-sorry." His grip tightened at that, and she cried out in pain. He was _hurting_ her.

"_WHO?!_" He yelled at her and brought his face so close they were almost touching. All she could do was whisper, "Littlefinger."

He practically shoved her to the ground, then quickly stood up and strided away from her and into the trees surrounding them. She cried freely then, from fear and from the pain he caused her. That was the first time he'd ever violently put his hands on her, and it happened after she had already put her trust in him and thought he would never hurt her in any way. But he did. He hurt her, then left her. All because she was stupid enough to mention his burns and his brother.

That fucking son of a whore! Littlefucker! Sandor's thoughts raged through him as he tore through the trees, breaking branches from their trunks. He had heard from the Queen's guards what she'd done to the little piece of shit. He wished that she would've gone through with it, cut his throat and give him a grin to match the simpering one that was always plastered to his face. That would've been the only just thing the Queen had ever done.

How many other people had he told, if he managed to give the story to the little bird? How did he even know? Did he tell all his whores as well? He tried to sift through his memories of the nights he'd wasted an hour in Littlefinger's brothels, but found nothing out of the ordinary. The whores looked at him as they usually did-with disgust.

But not the little bird. When she looked at him while mentioning the fire and his brother, he saw the mirror image of his sister's face, the first face he saw when he woke after the "accident." He saw pity in the Stark girl's face, plain as day.

He couldn't take it, couldn't take her looking at him like that, reminding him of his sister. He had to change it, so he turned it into fear. That was an expression he was used to, felt comfort in. On the little bird though, her fear only made him feel worse. He'd seen her look at Joffrey with eyes leaking tears, as he ordered another beating, or up into Meryn's face, as he carried out the King's orders. Fuck. He told her he wouldn't hurt her, and after only a few hours on their journey, he'd become everything she thought she had left behind.

He couldn't trust himself with her. That was exceedingly evident for a number of reasons, most of which he daren't even admit to himself. He had to get her to her brother as quickly as he could. Fuck Riverrun and certainly fuck Winterfell. They were taking the Gold Road to the West. He would take her back to his lands not hers.


	3. Chapter 3

After she regained some semblance of composure, Sansa removed the Hound's cloak from her shoulders and sat on it, wondering what she should do next. The Hound couldn't have left, since the horse still stood proudly near her, sometimes grazing on the grass at his feet. Stranger was his name, wasn't it? Fitting. She was riding with a killer...on Death. She couldn't help but wonder if she really were as stupid as Joffrey always said.

Her last act of stupidity may be the end of her. Why did she have to tell him she knew about his burns and his brother's part in making them? She began picking at the threads of his white cloak, trying to find the answer there. This was probably the same cloak he'd given her that day in the throne room when Ser Meryn almost stripped her bare. Lord Tyrion may have stopped the beating, but the Hound's cloak truly made her feel protected again. She groaned and wondered why she had to say anything about what Littlefinger expressly told her never to speak of.

She was stuck in the woods with someone who she now knew deep down was a killer. His eyes were directed at those men in King's Landing, when he'd pulled them off her and quickly killed them. When those eyes were directed at her, as he held her arms so bitingly tight, she understood why so many feared him. She wished he hadn't gotten so enraged, hadn't taken it out on her, but he did. And she thought he was hateful before...

She heard a branch snap behind her and quickly turned. The Hound emerged from the wood with something cradled in his arms. She wasn't expecting him back so quickly, but he strode over to her now, knelt, and dropped some apples in front of her. He took one and stood further from her as he ate, looking out onto the river.

"Eat," he grunted, when he felt her hesitate to pick an apple up. He looked down at her from the corner of his eye, and finally, she reached out and began biting into one. He had to hold back a sigh of relief, as she continued to eat silently. He doubted that he could take much more of her chirping right now and was also thankful that she didn't seem too angry with him.

After he finished, he threw his apple core into the water and began walking toward Stranger. Sansa took a few last bites and did the same. He took his cloak from her, wrapped it around her bundle, and strapped it to Stranger again. They eyed each other warily through the whole process. Finally, he hesitantly put his arms out toward her. Understanding, Sansa lifted her arms and allowed him to place her on Stranger. He jumped behind her, and they broke into a gallop.

They stayed off the roads throughout the day and continued weaving through the trees, moving north toward where she thought the Kingsroad lay. She remembered how long it had taken to come to King's Landing from Winterfell, but then, she'd been excited about seeing the capital and of course spending time with Prince Joffrey. Now, her heart leapt, knowing that she was moving in the other direction-back home to the North. She could almost forget the Hound's enraged eyes and how he had lunged at her a few hours ago because he was solidly behind her now and riding toward the place she never should've left. She should thank him tonight.

Thinking about her first trip on the Kingsroad also made her remember Lady. That day came back to her so vividly. Joffrey threatening the butcher's boy then Arya, until Nymeria came out from the trees and ripped Joffrey's arm away. That night, Lady had to pay the price for Nymeria coming to Arya's defense. Sansa imagined the many times a hand was lifted against her in King's Landing, usually Ser Meryn's hand or his sword. If Lady were there, she would've done exactly what Nymeria did to Joffrey or perhaps even more. Sansa smiled at the thought.

Ser Lancel's reports on Robb's battles always tried to cast him and his men in a terrible, sorcerous light. From Shae though, she heard the truth of it. Grey Wind tore through dozens of men in battle, running fiercely along his equally fierce master. Sansa was glad her brothers still had their direwolves, but Arya and she were alone. Arya especially, for Sansa at least had the Hound with her.

Once the sun began to set, Sansa noticed something out of place and began to wonder. The sun glared right in front of her as they rode; her squinting was already causing her a slight headache. If they were moving north, then the sun should be at her left. They were heading west then. Where were they going?

"Hound," she turned toward him, "I thought-"

"Shh!" He slowly led Stranger to a walk and finally stopped him completely. She turned back around and noticed where the Hound was looking and why he had shushed her. Through the trees, she saw the main road, which eventually led up to a bridge crossing the river. She knew it. They were still near the Blackwater and heading west. She looked closer at the bridge and saw two Lannister sentries, their red armour glinting in the setting sun.

Why in the seven hells were two lone Lannister men standing at this bridge? When had they thought to defend the Goldroad? Didn't Tywin still control the Westerlands? Why the fuck would he care about this bridge? Sandor knew this part of the river was an offshoot from the main Blackwater Rush and eventually led to the Gods Eye. He had to think fast because this was their only way to continue following the Goldroad. The river was still too wide and deep to wade across, especially for Stranger.

Sandor wondered if word had already gotten out about his desertion. Surely, everyone in the Red Keep knew of it by this time and also knew that the little bird was missing. Whether they imagined that he was the one to take her or not was still debatable. Nonetheless, did these two know any of it?

He decided he'd take his chances and led Stranger into a canter out of the woods and onto the road. He immediately saw the two guards draw together in the center of the bridge. The girl said nothing, perhaps too frightened, but she moved herself closer to him. He held Stranger's reins in one hand and pressed the other to her waist, trying to give her a reassuring squeeze.

As they approached the bridge, one guard yelled out, "House Lannister occupies this bridge and all others down the Goldroad. Who seeks passage?"

Sandor slowed Stranger to a trot until they reached the foot of the bridge. "A Lannister Hound," he replied, once the guards were close enough to see his face.

"And where are you heading, ser?" The guard closed in on him, as did the other, while putting his hands up toward Stranger. The horse immediately bucked his head, and the guards moved back a few paces.

"I'm no 'ser,'" Sandor replied, "and I'm heading toward Casterly Rock." _What?!_ Sansa thought. She immediately shifted in her seat, but the Hound's hand held her tight, trying to keep her still.

The same guard continued his questioning, which sounded more like conversation than a guard's duty. "Who's the precious cargo?"

"Let's see. Highborn. Red hair. Looks about fourteen or fifteen. Who the fuck do you think?"

"One of the Stark hostages," the other guard said, now looking at her in fascination. What was the Hound doing? Why was he telling them who she was?

"Congratulations," Sandor scoffed. "I'm taking her to the Rock." The next question threw Sandor off.

"Under Lord Tywin's orders?"

"Lord Tywin?"

"Yes," the guard answered. "After he took the city. We just had a rider pass through with the news." He smiled up at Sandor, expecting that he'd be glad of this turn in the battle.

"Good," Sandor answered. "I hadn't heard that. I'm on the Queen's orders to take the girl to Casterly Rock. She feared we'd lose her as a hostage if the city fell, so she ordered me to take her alone and evade detection."

"Oh, I see," the guard replied. "You must've left the other Stark girl there then, trying not to put all our wolves in one basket." The other guard chuckled. Sansa was shocked to see that those outside the Red Keep believed the Lannisters still had Arya.

"Right," said Sandor. "And this is the elder, much more important." Sandor was growing tired of this idiot's questions and began debating whether he should just kill him. He wondered whether leaving anyone behind them with any knowledge of where they were would be a good idea. Then, he felt Sansa trembling in front of him and remembered how she looked at him that morning, first in pity then in terror. He didn't want that look from her again. He'd try to get past this bridge without any bloodshed and hope that these two nobodies would stay stationed here for a long while yet. But if this fucker asked one more question, Sandor might have to do what he did best.

"You're free to pass then," the guard finally said. "The gods be with you."

Sandor nodded and walked Stranger through the two men and off the bridge. On the Goldroad, he kept to a steady canter to try and give Stranger a rest before they went in the woods again. He wanted to ride deep into the brush before stopping for the night. Once he could no longer see the bridge, he smoothly moved into the trees on the edge of the road and broke into a gallop. Before he could get Stranger into a fast rhythm, however, the little bird pushed herself off Sandor and began fidgeting around in the saddle.

"What are you doing?" He yelled over Stranger's hooves.

"I want to get off," she screamed back, "I want to get away from you!" Now, he wished he would've killed the guards back there if this is the kind of treatment he was getting for not killing them, for actually _talking_ his way through an obstacle.

He slowed Stranger down until he finally stopped, then without any help from him, the little bird slipped down off the horse and broke into a run. What in the seven hells?! Sandor quickly jumped off Stranger, threw his reins over a branch, and sprinted after her.

The girl was quick, especially while he still had his damn armor on. He almost had her a few times, but then she would cut around another tree and he'd slip his way after her. They kept running, and she'd scream back at various intervals, "Stop chasing me!" or "Liar!" All he could do was yell back at her between hacking breaths, "What the fuck are you doing?!"

Finally, she tripped over her dress after jumping over a fallen tree trunk. He slid to his knees and grabbed her ankle, while she tried to get up. She fell again when he tugged her down. He pulled her toward him, which gave her the perfect opportunity to punch him in the face, just as she'd seen Arya do to Bran so many times before. Unlike Bran, he only growled and pulled her in closer, while pinning her hands above her head.

He caught his breath for a moment, then yelled, "What is wrong with you?!"

"You lied to me," she yelled back, then gasped for air. "You said you were taking me home, but now you're taking me to Casterly Rock!"

"You stupid little bird," he choked back. "That was a fucking trick! I told him that, so he'd let us pass the bridge!"

"No, you're still _lying_ to me. I know we're going _west_ on the _Gold_road, when we should be going _north_ on the _Kings_road. I'm not _that_ stupid!" Sandor let go of her then, and she managed to kick him in the thigh as he rolled off her. He sat still, catching her breath, as did she.

"I meant to tell you this morning," he began. "Before..." Sansa looked toward him with her brow furrowed, still with a distinct look of distrust in her face. He continued. "No, I'm not taking you to Winterfell. It's too far. We'll be found and caught. I'm taking you to your brother's camps. From the most recent reports I know about, he should be somewhere between Ashemark and The Crag." He looked over at her and noticed her distrust begin to wilt. He took that as a good sign and went on. "We're going to start moving away from the Goldroad now, slightly northwest. We'll get to Pinkmaiden, then cross the Red Fork, and hopefully find your brother somewhere around there." They both stayed silent, their labored breaths the only sounds within the darkening woods.

"How do you know he'll be there?"

"I don't. You can't be sure about troop movements, but once we're deeper in the Riverlands, it'll be easier to ask around or maybe even find some of his bannermen, especially if they know you're Sansa Stark." At least that's what he hoped would happen, but as he said, there's no telling exactly where her brother will be...or how they'd take to his own presence with the girl.

"I'm sorry for running," she whispered and turned toward him. "I thought you lied to me about everything."

"A hound will die for you," he said, "but never lie to you." Sansa looked at him straight in the face, at his burns, and his sweat, and smiled. He stood up and held his hand out toward her. "Come on. We need to find Stranger and set up camp for the night."

She took his hand and followed him, wondering how it became dark so quickly. "Will we be able to find our way back?"

"Yes," he pointed out some disarrayed leaves and grass. "I slipped there one of the times where you cut across while running. Be thankful that I'm heavy enough in this armor to leave tracks."

Soon, they heard Stranger's snorting and breathing not too far from them and finally stumbled upon him in the dark. Sandor immediately walked over and took the saddle and all its trappings off the horse's back. Then, he began rubbing Stranger down and whispering to him. Sansa wanted to help in some way, so she took out their bedrolls, laying them side by side, then pulled out a few of the leftover apples from the morning. There were three left.

"Should I build a fire?"

"Not tonight," Sandor answered and turned away from Stranger. He walked over to his bedroll and almost fell down upon it. "We should stay as hidden as possible this first night. Maybe as the days pass, we could get a little more comfortable. Build some fires or stay at an inn."

As he spoke, he took off his sword belt and began undoing each piece of his armor. His greaves were first, then his paldrons came next. He loosed most of the buckles around his arms, but couldn't reach the last on his back. He looked over, and Sansa was already watching him intently.

"Would you mind unbuckling the strap at my back, girl?"

She quickly crawled behind him, undid the buckle, and even pushed the armor from his shoulders. The last bit was his studded jerkin, that stood for both breastplate and chainmail in his suit of armor. He pulled this over his head and laid down in his tunic with an exhausted "Fuck." The little bird passed him one of the apples he got her that morning, and he also heard her delicate chewing when he bit into his own.

"You hardly ever wear the Kingsguard armor," she chirped between bites. "Why is that?"

"Have you seen it? It's bloody ridiculous. Helmet that makes it difficult to breathe, much less see. The mail looks more like fish scales, and its in the most unhelpful places. It's a bitch to fight in overall."

"Your dog's head helm seems like it would be difficult to fight in, yet you wear it."

"Only for tourneys or other bullshit. In a real battle though, I like to see the men in front of me, at my side, or coming behind me. That's difficult to do with a helmet on."

"So you don't like their armor or their titles. You corrected that guard as well, when he called you 'ser.' You're a member of the Kingsguard though. You should be a knight."

"And do to you what those knights in the Kingsguard did?" At his words, Sansa again felt the sting of Ser Meryn's blade across the back of her thighs, then perhaps the even more frightening edge of his dagger when he cut open the back of her dress.

"They were not true knights," she whispered. The Hound chuckled and threw his apple core into the brush.

"There are no true knights, no more than there are gods. I learned both those facts before I was even ten years old."

Sansa stopped eating her apple and looked at him in shock. She had never heard someone curse the gods so casually.

"There _are_ gods," she said, "and there are true knights too. All the stories can't be lies."

"Stories?" Sandor scoffed and sat up again. He turned toward her, so she could look at him directly as he spoke. He wanted her to understand. "How about we finish the story you began this morning?"

"No. I'm sorry. This morning-I shouldn't have even-"

"No no, let's do this properly. I, for one, can't stand the idea of Littlefucker stealing my story for his own. What surprises me though is how he even knows about it. Most people think it was some battle. A siege, a burning tower, an enemy with a torch. Lots of those last night. One time, some fool asked if it was dragonsbreath." He laughed and looked up at the little bird. She was still looking right at him, listening. Good girl. She was getting better at looking at him. "My father told everyone my bedding had caught fire, which, by the way, is the reason why I wasn't too thrilled about your suggestion to light your bedding the morning you got your moonblood."

Sansa looked down, remembering that morning and how embarrassed she was when the Hound found her still trying to flip over her mattress when Shae sped after the other handmaiden. They ran through their options, and Sansa now recalled his shock when she had suggested throwing her sheets in fire. He then suggested they just tell the Queen to save herself a beating when they found out that not only did she have her moonblood, but she was hiding it as well. Sansa turned her face back toward the Hound once he continued.

"Our maester gave me ointments. _Ointments!_ Well, Gregor got his ointments too. Four years later, they anointed him with the seven oils and he recited his knightly vows and Rhaegar Targaryen tapped him on the shoulder and said, 'Arise, Ser Gregor.' If he could be a knight, then I certainly didn't want to be one."

Sansa looked at him quietly for a moment, then asked, "You wanted to kill him that day in the tourney, didn't you? I saw it in your eyes."

"Killing him is the only thing I've wanted since I was six years old," he said. "Killing others is just my way of wasting time before I meet him again with a sword in my hand. I always dream about it." He smirked at her and felt his mouth twitching. She was trying to control her expression, but he knew that underneath it all, she was really just trying not to look shocked and disgusted.

Then, she asked, almost sadly, "You don't dream of anything else?"

Sandor looked closely at her then. There were dirty marks all over her face and leaves still stuck in her hair from when he pinned her to the ground after chasing her. He wanted to pull those leaves from her red tangles and brush the dirt off her face, just to touch her softly for a moment and see if she felt the same as she did in his mind.

"Go to sleep, little bird," he grumbled instead. "We have a long ride tomorrow."


	4. Chapter 4

The sounds of a crackling fire and the smell of meat woke Sansa up in the early morning. The sun had barely lifted over the horizon, and Sandor already found a couple squirrels for them both to break their fast on. Yesterday's food consisted merely of apples and a few berries he'd stumbled upon at midday as they rested. The past few days provided them with little opportunity for finding and eating some meat. Squirrel was a delicacy at this point.

"Good morning, Sandor." Startled, he quickly turned his face up and saw the little bird stretching on top of her bedroll. She looked at him and smiled. Unable to hold her gaze when she looked at him like that-which was getting unnervingly common lately-he looked back down at the last squirrel he had on the spit.

"Morning, little bird," he replied. For though she now called him by his true name, he still stuck to the name he'd fashioned for her during her first days in King's Landing. This nickname became a topic of conversation during their ride the morning after he'd told her about Gregor and knights.

_"You call me a little bird," she said then, still facing forward in their shared saddle. "Did you get that from the Queen?"_

_He frowned at her question. "The Queen? No. Why?"_

_"She always called me 'little dove.' I heard it a hundred times during the battle. 'Come here, little dove;' 'Sit, little dove;' 'Drink, little dove.' She's called me that since the moment I first met her. I just assumed it was some Lannister joke."_

_"No...at least not that I know of. I started calling you that because you were so good at chirping the little courtesies your septa taught you. Even after-," he was going to say after her father was killed, but thought against it, "-the war began, you kept on chirping how you loved the King and hated your brother."_

_"Only because I knew if I didn't, they'd kill me...or worse."_

_"I know. You're a smart little bird sometimes. Then, I called you little bird because you were stuck in the Red Keep, caged." They both stayed silent, then Sandor felt her exhale and lean back against him._

_"I'm not caged anymore," she said. He didn't answer, almost overwhelmed by the thought that he had broken her free. The dog ran away with the bird, an unlikely travelling pair. "I don't mind the nickname though. I've never had one. Arya had so many names in Winterfell from the men and our servants-some names nicer than others. I was always just Sansa." He never thought she'd envy her sister anything. He remembered that little she-wolf, running around the Red Keep, chasing after cats, and who the fuck knew what else. _

_She then asked, "What should I call you? Not the Hound or Dog, like Joffrey would say."_

_"Well that leaves only one option, little bird. Just call me by my name," he said, half wondering whether she even knew it. No one ever called him by his true name, and he doubted whether she ever cared to ask for it. Then, she shifted in the saddle and turned to him with that smile on her face._

_"I will, Sandor."_

"I found us a couple of squirrels. Finally get some meat in our bellies before we head out today," he said. He handed her the one he already roasted and had now cooled down a bit, then took his own off the makeshift spit he set up.

He watched the girl pick the squirrel delicately with her fingers and chew on each small bite, which gave him further cause for her nickname. He, on the other hand, tore into his squirrel, ravenous after so many days living on bloody fruit. She watched him as he chewed and couldn't help but make the connection between his eating habits and his infamous moniker.

They both licked their fingers when they finished, then began packing up for their day of travelling. As Sansa rolled up both their bedrolls, she asked, "How near are we to Stoney Sept?"

"If nothing goes wrong, we should get there by nightfall," he answered, while he kicked dirt over their small fire. "And who knows, we might just be able to stay at an inn for the night."

She felt her heart lighten at the thought. She still wore the same dress that she left the Red Keep in, and her hair had reached a point beyond what her fingers could untangle. Also, while the squirrels were appreciated and she knew Sandor had taken time to find them and make them, she wanted bread, soup, and real meat tonight.

He placed her on Stranger once they finished packing, climbed on behind her, and galloped off for the day. This was now their fourth day travelling, and Sandor was sure that his arse would never forgive him for it, but he could never get used to how over the past couple days the little bird immediately leaned against him when they began each ride. The only times he ever touched her or held her close was when they rode, so his arse be damned; he'd stay on Stranger forever if he could, just to feel her against him or hold her when they made a quick turn or jump.

Sansa at first feared riding Stranger, knowing that the horse was a war horse of the worst kind. Yet, the certainty of Sandor behind her and his arms around her helped her feel safe. She was sure he wouldn't like it, but she already started seeing him in the light of a protector. As they rode, it began to dawn on her what he risked by not just deserting the battle but also escaping with the Lannister's biggest bargaining chip. There must be a large price on their heads, a price that only a Lannister could pay.

When he held the reins in front of her, she often studied his hands. These, Sansa thought, told more than his face. She knew how broad they were from when he placed her on the saddle or held her while they rode, but she looked at them and saw how they were covered in cuts and scars, some fresher than others. He obviously never cared to wear gauntlets or perhaps he got these in other fights. At first, like Stranger, his hands frightened her, but now she wanted to touch them and feel which scars were still raised from his skin and which melted into the rest of his hands and fingers. Most of all though, his hands comforted her-for woe betide the man who dared to demand the price on his head.

They stopped again about midday to drink from their shared waterskin and rest Stranger for a moment.

"We should be very near the Blackwater Rush again now," he said. "We'll have to cross it to get to Stoney Sept. Hopefully, there'll be an easy way to do that. I doubt my conversational skills will get us past Lannister sentries this time."

As she drank, Sansa's stomach dropped. She didn't want them to falter here, so close to the Riverlands, to her brother and mother. They had to find a way through whatever came next.

They rode for another hour or so; then, just as before when they were approaching the Blackwater, Sandor slowed Stranger down and looked through the trees and out onto the river. North up the river, they saw nothing, no bridges or sentries. South down the river, Sansa saw nothing and heaved a sigh of relief, but Sandor kept looking, edging Stranger closer to the river itself. He knew there had to be something here, especially since the river forked not too many miles south. Then, finally, Sandor saw what he was looking for.

There was a small ferry stationed on the riverbank, and he tried looking closer, but couldn't tell if Lannisters, Starks, or smallfolk managed it. He felt the little bird's eyes upon him, then she whispered, "What are you looking at?"

He pointed toward the ferry, then leaned closer to her and whispered back, "That's a ferry right there. You see the post on the riverbank?" She nodded. "Now, look at the raft on the water. It's a rather shitty ferry, but a ferry nonetheless." The little bird turned toward him, bumping her cheek against his nose. He noticed her blush, but she continued with what she wanted to say anyways.

"Can you tell who holds it? It might be our best chance to get across the river."

"No, little bird, I can't. We shouldn't risk it."

"Then how will we get across?" Sandor kept silent and began surveying the river itself. This far inland, the Blackwater became less of a transport pathway and more of just a plain river, not as wide nor as deep as it was when they crossed the bridge that first day of travel. The waters rushed past them, making white peaks on the surface. Not entirely impossible. He wondered if the little bird would balk at the idea.

"Can you swim?"

She turned fully around then and looked at him directly, shock written plainly on her face. "You want to swim across? What about Stranger?"

"He can swim. He was trained during Robert's Rebellion. A horse who was afraid of water was of no use then, as in any war waged on these blasted Riverlands. My question though was whether you could swim."

"I swam well enough in Winterfell's hot springs," she answered. Sandor jumped off Stranger and put his hands up to help Sansa slip down as well.

"These aren't your warm, calm springs, little bird," he began. "Help me with my armor. You're going to have to use all your strength to get from one side to the other without being swept away. There shouldn't be much of a current, but paddle and kick as hard as you can. You see that clump of trees on the other side, almost reaching out into the water?" He pointed this out with the arm she'd just pulled his paldrons off of. She looked and nodded. "That's where we need to be. It's a little bit upstream, so it's alright if the current carries you slightly." She looked back at him, and he could tell she was already nervous.

"Can't I hold your hand as we cross?" Sansa needed his strong hands now, they'd help her and guide her the whole way. She looked down at them and saw as they flexed, almost in response to her question.

Gods, this girl will be the death of him. He pulled off his studded jerkin and looked down at her as she gazed up at him, eyes almost begging him. "If we did that, you'd be dragging me, not the other way around. I need one hand on Stranger's reins to guide him and the other to keep me afloat," he said and placed his hand on her neck. He kneeled down to eye level with her and whispered, "Don't worry. You can do this, little bird."

"Birds can't swim," she said and looked down. Sandor pulled her closer then and tilted her chin up with his thumb. He looked straight into her eyes, which of course were achingly Tully blue.

"Then be a fish for a moment," he whispered. "Your mother is a Tully, so you should have some fins tucked under your feathers. Go, and I'll be right behind you."

She smiled up at him and pressed the hand he laid against her neck, then quickly began unlacing her shoes. Sandor packed all their clothes together and found a rock near the river to bind to the bundle. Sansa wondered at first what he was doing, but then he launched the bundle over to the other side of the river. It landed soundly right near the place he told her they also needed to land. He tied his armor as high on Stranger's back as possible, then began leading him to the edge of the woods and toward the river.

"You don't think they'll see us?"

Sandor looked over at the ferry again, trying to make out the figures ambling about near it. "I can hardly see them. They might see Stranger, but just try to stay underwater as long as possible and keep your head close to the water when you come up for air. It should take you only two dives to get across. And when you hit the riverbank, run toward the trees. Don't look back. Whatever you hear, keep running, and I'll be after you." She nodded, and gods, he wanted to do _something_ then, give her something more than just his reassurances. He shrugged it off, however, and they emerged from their cover.

Stranger needed little coaxing to walk into the water and neither did the little bird apparently. One moment, she was there, then the next, he saw her dive into the water. He tried to keep his head and body behind Stranger's, who surprisingly stayed above the water from his shoulders up. The river was perhaps even shallower than it seemed. As he swam next to Stranger, he saw the little bird poke her head up for a gulp of air, then head back down again.

Then, all of a sudden, it seemed as if the bottom dropped out from under Stranger, and he sank lower into the water with his head the only thing above the river's current. They were only a few strokes away from the water's edge, but the dip apparently stunned Stranger and he neighed loudly into the air.

Sandor heard a voice call from a distance, "Oi! Where the fuck you think you're going?!" Bloody Seven hells...

All at once, he saw the little bird crawl out of the water, grab the bundle he'd thrown over, and head into the trees. Keep running, girl, he thought. Thankfully, Stranger found his footing again now that they neared the riverbank, and he roared up onto the shore. Sandor saw the man who called after them sprinting up the riverbank, along with a couple other men running along the other side of the river. They were already close enough to see their faces, and Sandor thought they looked like the poorest of smallfolk. He pulled his sword from the pile of armor on Stranger's back. He wanted a fight, and if these fuckers gave him the chance, he'd gladly take it.

"There's a price to pay for crossing this river," the man on his side of the river yelled as he slowed to a halt in front of Sandor. "Now, you better pay it or my friends and I will fuck up the other side of your face." Sandor laughed.

"And what's the price?"

"A gold dragon," he replied, after seeing Sandor's armor on Stranger.

"Ha! You can go fuck yourself," Sandor said. "A gold dragon to get carried on a raft over a river that's hardly trouble to swim across? You think me a fool, boy?!" At this, the "boy" drew a dagger from his belt and held it in front of him.

"Fine then! You may be big as an aurochs, but I'm quick," he said. "And I saw some little cunt run into the trees. After we're done with you, we'll find her and gut her as well."

The boy lunged at him, and Sandor pushed him to the slippery rocks that littered the ground. He jumped up again and barreled into Sandor's body. The boy pulled his arm back to strike into Sandor's side, but before he could, Sandor grabbed onto his wrist and deftly swung his sword right at it. In one stroke, the man's hand fell to the ground. He shrieked in pain and fell to his knees. Sandor followed him onto the rocks lying near the riverbank, pulled him in close, and grabbed the dagger from his severed hand.

Their faces almost touching, Sandor growled, "What was it you planned to do to my lady?" With that, he dug the dagger deep into the man's belly and ripped his flesh up toward his ribs and out so that his guts fell from him and onto both their knees.

He then looked across the river and noticed the two other men staring at him in disbelief. They were about to dive into the water just a moment before, but now, they backed slowly away, arms in the air. Sandor kept staring at them as he threw the dagger near the man's body, sheathed his sword, and jumped onto Stranger, leading him into a swift gallop.

Sansa kept running. She heard yelling then a painful shriek just a moment ago, but Sandor told her to keep running no matter what, so she did. It had to be someone else's scream. Not his. Not his. It couldn't be his death she just heard. Tears began to leak onto her cheeks as she ran, then suddenly she heard the pounding of hooves. She was almost afraid to turn around, scared that she'd see another horse, not Stranger. Then, she gathered her courage and spun around to see a bloodied hand, his hand, reaching out toward her.

He pulled her onto the saddle as if she were a sack of potatoes and kept riding hard. Sansa righted herself enough to swing one leg over the saddle and sit against him as usual. She heard Sandor's armor clanging against Stranger's back, then she saw Sandor's legs covered in blood, along with his hands and arms. She turned to ask him what had happened, but she saw a savage look on his face and his wild eyes stayed trained right ahead of them.

Sandor knew she wanted to ask him about the blood when she turned toward him, but he couldn't answer now, he didn't want to scare her, he knew his blood was still up. Thankfully, she turned back around, and he pressed one hand against her torso, pulling her closer into his body than he ever had before. Then, he felt her two small hands cover his own bloody one, and she squeezed his fingers almost painfully. He was so surprised and overwhelmed in that moment that all he could do was close his eyes and press his lips to her damp hair.

As Sandor had told her that morning, they reached the outskirts of Stoney Sept right as the sun began to fall beneath the horizon. They were both exhausted and even Stranger had a hard time just walking through the streets as they looked for an inn to stay the night outside the city walls. He promised the little bird they'd get an inn tonight, and he sure as hells needed good food after the afternoon they just had. He felt the girl's stomach grumbling against his hand and knew she probably felt the same.

They arrived at one inn that looked more like a haunt for outlaws and sellswords than a lady and her shield, but Sansa thought that perhaps it would be best for them to mix in with this crowd rather than a group of knights. Sandor tethered Stranger to the stables, pulled his armor back on, gathered their bundle, and led Sansa to the entrance.

As soon as they walked in, a fat, old innkeep approached Sandor and asked, "What can I do for ye and yer little woman?"

"A room for the night, food, wine if you have any, and a bath for the girl," he replied. As Sandor haggled over the price, Sansa looked over the inn's main dining room and saw the beginnings of drunken revelry in its occupants. Ale sloshed against the tables, men ripped meat off its bones, and she noticed some barmaids willing to join in the fun, sitting on their patrons' laps and adding another voice to the songs. Sansa smiled. It reminded her of when Arya would taunt her into secretly visiting Winter Town. She had only peeked through open doors then, but now she was about to eat and sleep amongst these folk. She then heard Sandor's voice addressing the innkeep again above the din.

"Can we have the food taken up to our room after the girl bathes?"

"Aye," he said, "But that'll cost you extra." Sandor threw what looked like another stag at him and then the innkeep led them to their room.

Shortly after arriving and surveying their surroundings, a couple maids came in hoisting a tub and two others followed with buckets of warm water. Sansa smiled at each of them and thanked them for their work, lightly touching the water as she spoke.

"Right," Sandor said, once they were alone in their room. "I'm heading down to the stables for my own bath. I'll be back quickly, so don't take too long in there. Wash, get dressed, and then we'll eat." She smiled at him and nodded. He took his armor off, along with his sword and dagger, pulled fresh clothes from their bundle, then left the room. A second later, he poked his head back in. "Bar the door."

Sandor went out the back and moved toward the stables. First, he gave Stranger a good rub down and a few oats he found littered around his stall. He had been incredible today and deserved all the rest he could get. Then, he went to the back where he saw a water pump and stripped down near it. He groaned when the cool water hit his face and chest. He scrubbed the blood from his fingers and hands, then made sure none of it had soaked his legs. He changed his pants and tunic there and began walking back toward the inn and his little bird.

He stopped at the bar for a moment and drained a pint of ale. He hoped the girl was done by now. He was starving and wanted to pass out. He tramped up the stairs toward their room and knocked heavily. He heard her chirp from behind the door, "Who is it?"

"Me, little bird," he said, and she opened the door swiftly. Perhaps it was the fact that he'd seen her covered in dirt for the past few days, but he could swear that her skin had never been this pale or her hair this red. He should just sit outside her door like a good guard dog, but his baser instincts got the best of him, and he walked into their room and sat on one of its chairs.

He looked...nice. His hair was clean with one side combed over his scars, as was his wont. She watched him pick at the splinters in the wood of their table, then sat silently across from him. Shortly after, a maid came in with food, and a few others pushed Sansa's tub out of her room. She hoped they wouldn't notice how dirty the water was.

Both Sansa and Sandor dug into their food once the girls left, washing each large bite down with the cheap wine they'd brought up. Sansa's mouth puckered at her first sip, but Sandor didn't seem to pay any notice to the wine's taste at all and kept eating as much as possible. When her plate was empty, Sansa ripped off a piece of their bread and soaked up the excess meat juices with it, plopping it into her mouth when she finished. Sandor took a deep breath after his last bit, then belched loudly.

He saw the little bird's eyebrows rise up on her porcelain forehead and her mouth stop mid-chew, the ball of bread bulging her cheek out. "Sorry, little bird," he said, then she kept chewing and smiled toward him. Why wouldn't she stop doing that? He was disgusting, he knew it. Yet, she kept smiling at him and lifting her eyes toward him as she drained the last bit of her wine. He got up from his seat and did what he knew he must before he could think any longer about it and change his mind.

Sandor knelt over the bed and pulled one of the pillows off, then threw it on the floor. She understood what he was doing and knew that it was only proper, but she also knew that her heart dropped when he did it. Sansa could barely understand why she was disappointed, but she was nonetheless and felt her cheeks grow hot as a result.

"You should go straight to bed, little bird," he said. "We can't stay here too late once the morning comes. It's already risky for us to stay here at all, but I think we both needed that meal and a good rest." She walked over to bar the door, then came over to him standing near his pillow and placing his sword on the floor and his dagger up on the bedstand near her. She kept creeping toward him with a queer look in her eyes, and he stood stark still, wondering what was going on.

Once she was right beneath his chin, he heard her whisper, "I wanted to thank you for today...for encouraging me and then...doing whatever you had to do for us to get here safely."

"That's what I'm here for," he whispered back. Then, all of a sudden, he saw her jump up and felt her peck his lips...or at least try to. She landed more on his chin then his lips, but the effort alone made him laugh.

"What was that?" She looked up at him then, her face almost as red as her hair, and started stammering.

"I...I just-...I wanted to say...thank you."

"You already did," he said, still laughing. "What do you have to peck at me for, little bird? You shouldn't have wasted your first kiss like that." Sandor saw her eyes grow hard, and she stomped toward the other side of the bed, throwing off her dress. Before she slid under the sheets, she stood in her shift and stared him down. _And I thought I loved to see her angry when she was fully clothed._

"You're _not_ my first kiss, _Hound_," she bit back at him, but he kept on chuckling, while he got settled down on the floor. He could hear her quick breathing across the bed. She was probably still furious or perhaps just mortified. He sometimes forgot she was just a girl, and he was sure the last thing any girl wanted to be taunted about was her kisses. Sandor let out a sigh and remembered how she'd held his bloody hand so tightly as they rode or how she smiled at him. Then, he remembered how often he'd dreamt of kissing her, not like she'd just done it's true, but slowly and softly. Perhaps, it was just his own doubts that made him belittle her. He needed to push her away before showing her how to really kiss.

"I'm sorry, little bird," she heard him say from his place at the floor. "I shouldn't have said those things. I...appreciate your thanks." Her blood slowed. Sansa wanted to stay angry at him, but all she felt now were the last remnants of embarrassment. She knew it must be an effort for him to say he was sorry, and she was glad that he said it anyways. She rolled toward the side of the bed nearest him and peaked over the side.

Her hair fell down from her back and almost touched him. He reached out and tucked it behind her ear, so he could see her face. She still looked a little shy, but thankfully, it seemed like she'd forgiven his outburst. Before he could let the conversation go though, he had to ask, "So...who was your first kiss? Do I know him?"

She grew red again, then pressed her face to her pillow. Fuck! Why did he have to be such an idiot? She was going to forgive you, dog, then you threw it back in her face all over again. He was truly his own worst enemy. Yet, as he stewed in his own self-accusations, he heard her groan from behind her pillow, "Joffrey." He looked up at her in surprise, surely he should've known about this. He was always with the king and especially made sure to attend every audience with Sansa, just in case anything happened. Then, she continued, "Before he killed my father. He came to my room to give me a necklace, then kissed me."

She looked down at him sadly. He thought she'd regret the little peck she'd given him earlier, but now he knew that no kiss would be more regrettable than her first. "Don't worry, little bird," he whispered up to her. "You'll kiss a much greater man than him one day."

Sansa continued looking upon him, then whispered good night and turned onto her back to fall asleep. As she heard the songs still being loudly sung in the bar below, she replayed Sandor's last words in her head, then smiled because she knew she had already kissed a man much much greater than Joffrey.


	5. Chapter 5

_Instead of allowing her to fall sweetly to sleep, Sandor thought of something better they could do during their night at an inn. Her hand still dangled off the mattress she slept on above him, and he mercilessly tugged it down and her along with it. She fell on top of him, and he didn't give her time to pull away before grasping her long hair and pressing his lips to hers. _

_She groaned and melted into him, licking his lips and scratching her nails against his tunic. He opened his lips to her and devoured her, aching for more than she was giving him, perhaps more than she was willing to give. His doubts were silenced, however, when she pushed herself up off him and undid the laces at his chest. He pulled his tunic off when she finished, and she quickly began kissing his collarbone and exploring his torso._

_He started to sit up, so he could pull her shift from her and lavish the same attention on her as she did on him. Instead, she pushed him back down and whispered into his ear, "This is for you." He laid down and watched as she made her way down his chest, nipping at his nipples as she went, then across his stomach, following the line of hair that began at his navel and went down, down. _

_She ripped his laces open with one tug of her little hands and plunged in to find his cock, hot and waiting for her. Her eyes widened at the sight of it, then she laid against his legs and he could feel her quick breaths against him. She looked up at him sheepishly and asked, "What do I do now, ser?" _

_Sandor never thought he'd get off from a woman, especially Sansa, calling him ser, but fuck it, he wanted to be a knight then, he wanted to be her knight. "Grab it at the base and put your pretty little mouth around it, my lady." She quickly obeyed, and as she sucked on the head of his cock, he groaned and twisted her auburn hair in his hands. Her eyes returned to his face, a question twinkling from them. "Now move up and down. Suck me hard and slowly." _

_Fuck, the girl was a quick learner. She squeezed him harder and moved up and down at varying speeds. He thought he'd fall apart each time she reached his tip, but exploded only after she cupped his balls in her hand and gently pulled on them. He came into her mouth, and she swallowed as if she'd just had the last bit of her favorite dessert. _

_She slowly climbed her way back up to his face, then sweetly kissed his neck. Her lips were still warm, and he thought he could feel the stickiness of his come on them. Then suddenly, her lips felt colder, bitingly cold, and sharp against his skin._

Sandor opened his eyes and felt the cold edge of a blade on his neck. The sky was bright blue above him, but the little bird obscured that blue with her own eyes staring back down upon him.

"Told you I'm a quick learner," she said. "I think right now I have you in—what was it you called it?—a compromised position." She kept looking at him as she perched on his chest with a self-satisfied grin on her face.

The morning they woke up at Stoney Sept, Sansa began fiddling with the dagger he'd left on the bedstand, then asked him about it. Where did he get it? How sharp is it? Is it heavy? That would be a good weapon for me, wouldn't it? Or is that wrong? Will you teach me how to use it? What if something happens to me while you're off hunting? The questions went on and on; the chirping lasted day and night. He thought she would just let it go after he told her no the first time, but when she wasn't looking at his face, she was looking at the dagger at his hip. After days and days of this, he decided to teach her a few harmless tricks, which she surprisingly took to quite easily. She must've been her septa's pet.

"Change the angle of the blade, girl," he rasped up at her, voice groggy from being awoken so suddenly. "You're holding it for a shave not a cut." She shifted on his chest. Fuck, would she stop doing that? Thank the gods, she wasn't sitting near his cock, still hard from his dream.

"But I don't want to cut you," she said. "I'll know how to hold it when it matters."

"No, you won't," he replied. "If you're practicing for a fight, you should practice right. Now change the angle and give it a bit of pressure. I promise you won't chop my head off." She frowned at him, but did as he told her nonetheless. He felt the angle change, and the sharp edge of the blade balanced against his throat. She put a small amount of pressure behind it, then a little more. All of a sudden, she screamed and jumped off him.

"I told you!" She yelled at him, as she ripped a piece of fabric from the inside hem of her dress. "I've cut you and now you're bleeding!" Sansa pressed the cloth to his throat and wondered why he always had to make things real. She just wanted him to laugh when he woke up, maybe teach her another trick, but no—he wanted her to cut him for true instead. And now, he was laughing.

She huffed and asked, "What are you laughing about?"

"You! Your face turned so pale! You'd think that my lifeblood was seeping out of my neck from that tiny little cut." She kept dabbing at his cut, wiping his neck clean from the drops of blood that seeped through his skin.

"I'm glad you find me so amusing," she said. "I just don't want you hurt." She whispered that last part, hardly aware that she'd said it at all, but he heard it, and his laughter began to slowly die down.

He whispered toward the face that was still so close to his, "And why is that?"

Sansa stared down at him, wondering what she should say, how she could express the answer to that question without having him laugh at her again. Since their night at Stoney Sept, when she made a fool of herself and he called her out on it, she tried to keep her emotions at bay, especially since so many of them were inextricably tied to this man and what he'd done for her.

Some nights, after she knew he'd fallen asleep, she turned over in her bedroll and stared at his face. She hardly saw the scars anymore; they were just another facial feature, like his dark eyes and his brown hair. She'd stare at him and wonder why he'd done all this for her. He abandoned his master, spirited away their greatest hostage, then stayed on the road with her, teaching her how to use a dagger or cook a rabbit. He could be killed for all this, probably by his own brother since whispers of The Mountain and his band of killers now followed them through every village or ransacked town.

On those nights, she wanted to edge closer to him, see if the answer were on his sleeping breaths or his resting hands. Each time, she kept herself on her own bedroll and just stared up at the stars, hoping that one day she'd understand this man or herself. She wanted to thank him, but didn't know how. You would give a favor to a knight or a kiss, but she already tried that and failed miserably. Besides, he wasn't a knight. How could she give her thanks to a man, a warrior, a killer?

With each passing day, she realized that he was more to her than just a protector. She'd been spending more time with him than she ever had with anyone else since she left Winterfell. Also, with each passing day, she began to understand what her father meant when he told her the kind of man he'd find to replace Joffrey as her husband.

_When you're old enough, I'll make you a match with someone who's worthy of you. Someone brave and gentle and strong._

Gods, how stupid she was when he told her those words, still infatuated with Joffrey. Sandor, however, was never stupid, but he was always brave and always strong. He wasn't always gentle. She remembered how he'd grasped her arms when she let it slip that she knew about his burns. Yet, he was gentle almost all other times. When he held her in the saddle as they rode hard through the Riverlands or when he had encouraged her through the river or back even further during their time in King's Landing. Knowing all this, how could she answer his question without making a fool of herself, without showing him how she really felt.

"You know I wouldn't survive this journey without you," she finally said. Sansa pulled her eyes up to look at him, hoping he understood what she really meant. She didn't mean the rabbits he'd bring back for dinner or the men he killed to keep them safe. She meant she couldn't survive without _him_. To her dismay, when she looked into his eyes, she only saw that hardness that had so often scared her in the Red Keep.

"Aye," he growled back, "you wouldn't." With that, he quickly got up and stalked into the trees around them. Sansa's shoulders fell, as she heard his long strides move further and further from her.

What the fuck did he expect her to say? He couldn't even think of it, ashamed that he wanted her so badly, while she saw him as her faithful watchdog, The Hound who chaperoned her from King's Landing back to her mother and brother. She needed him, of course. If he were gone, who'd find their food, build the fire, ride Stranger, haggle with innkeeps, and the list went on and on. That's all you're good for, dog. What made you feel differently?

Sandor found his way to a tree and leaned his head against it, trying to catch his breath and that's when he looked down and noticed his cock still straining against his leathers. "Fuck it all," he whispered, then undid his laces and began stroking himself rapidly, trying to remember her in his dream as she touched him, sucked him, _wanted_ him. Then, he remembered her sitting on top of him just now with a knife to his throat, smiling down at his scarred face, pleased with her skills. He came hard then and groaned against the tree, still grinding his forehead into the rough bark.

As he caught his breath, he realized how he'd become so deluded, thinking that she cared for him. His dreams were getting the best of him. He thought her smiles and kisses were his, but they weren't. She tried kissing him that night in probably some half-hearted attempt to grant a favor or "express her thanks" as she put it.

He wondered about that kiss, about her smiles, and the many times now that she would press her hands against his as they rode. He knew she felt gratitude, but perhaps this could mean affection as well. With her answer now though, he understood it all. It was just gratitude, just obligation she felt for the man who freed her from the lions. That was all, so why should he stay with her at journey's end? To beg scraps from the table once she was back safe with her family?

In the past week or so, he began to wonder if her brother wouldn't take him as a soldier. Sandor knew his own history would work both for him and against him. He was known as a Lannister dog, but still, he was also one of the fiercest fighters in the Seven Kingdoms. The Young Wolf would be a fool not to take him. He'd give his allegiance to another king, one he only knew by name and reputation. He'd do it all just to stay close to her. But now, fuck her kisses, her favors, and her bullshit. He was taking her back to her wolf brother and then have done with her.

Sandor decided to keep to his original plan before all this other shit got in the way. Drop her off. Keep riding north. Take the Black. It was the best option for a broken man like him—a deserter, a craven, and a lovesick fool. He would bury the fires within him—started by Gregor and fanned by the girl—through ice and the land beyond the wall.

Sansa stayed still where he left her, trying to figure out how she could've answered him differently. She heard him approaching again, then stood and turned, ready to face him.

"Sandor, you must have misunderstood me. I meant—."

"No, girl, I understood you perfectly," he said, while picking up their belongings and strapping them onto Stranger. "I told you I'd take you to your brother and that's what I intend to do. We're a day's ride outside of Pinkmaiden. We've already seen a few of your brother's bannermen, so I'm sure there'll be someone there to give us direction on where exactly to go. After another week or so, you'll be back with your family and won't need me leading you around anymore."

"Please stop," she said, as she edged toward him and stilled his hands on Stranger's bridle. "Why must you deliberately twist my words? You've been very...important to me in these last few weeks. I don't just mean with—." He turned toward her again with a fury in his eyes she hadn't seen in quite some time.

"Just shut up and get on the horse. I'm done with you and your chirping and can't wait to be rid of you." Sansa could do nothing but stare back at him, wondering how her words had changed him so. Her face grew hard against his insults, then she walked over to Stranger's stirrup, waiting for Sandor to pull her up.

He hoisted her up roughly by her armpits and jumped on behind her, both hands holding tight to the reins. He intended to ride as if the Seven Hells raged behind him. Even when Stranger took a jump or a hard turn, he didn't let his hands stray from their tight hold on his reins. He noticed the girl struggle to hold on, curling her fingers around the pommel of the saddle or even Stranger's mane. He tried to feel nothing as she grasped at whatever would hold her, now that his hand refused to keep her steady. But gods, it was tearing him up not to touch her, and he wondered how he'd get through never touching her again after leaving her.

The Black. The Night's Watch. He kept repeating those words, almost as a mantra, while they continued riding and the sky turned crimson with the dying day. By the time night began, Sansa rigidly held herself away from him, and they arrived at the outskirts of Pinkmaiden.

They found an inn for the night, another one frequented by sellswords and the like. Sandor jumped off Stranger, while Sansa slid quickly off, not expecting Sandor to help her after a day's ride spent jostled to and fro without his support. She couldn't even bear to look at him, so instead just stared at the ground, waiting for his instructions. If he wanted to play the jailer to her prisoner, then so be it.

He led Stranger to the inn's stables, then returned to Sansa, who stood where he left her, still as stone. She followed him into the inn, and as last time, he haggled the price for a room and food, but this inn refused to bring their food upstairs, so they had to eat amongst the rest of the group. At this point, Sandor could hardly give a fuck if anyone recognized him, while Sansa was amongst her family's bannermen now and was probably in no danger. Nonetheless, he led her to a corner, near only a few sellswords, who didn't look too drunk or too curious for their own good. She sat against the wall, putting him between her and the rest of the table.

One of the barmaids dropped a stew and some bread in front of them, then came back with a jug of ale. Sandor tucked in quickly, drinking as much ale as possible between chews. He meant to get thoroughly drunk before going back with Sansa to their room. From the corner of his eye, he noticed her picking at the bread but hardly touching her food.

"Eat, girl," he said to her.

"I'm not hungry."

"We haven't eaten anything today."

"I don't care. I don't want it."

Sandor turned to her then and glared straight into her eyes, "Eat or I'll force it down your throat." She stared back at him with a scowl on her face, truly looking like the wolf she was made to be.

He heard her whisper to herself as she took a bite of her stew, "Why do you even care?" He knew he shouldn't answer that question and didn't.

At his right, another sellsword joined the table and announced to his comrades, "Well men, it looks like we might have a job opportunity up north." Each of the men looked up from their meals and asked what he meant. "I just got some big news from one of King Robb's bannermen. Turns out that Winterfell's destroyed." The table went silent, but Sandor heard the little bird's spoon clatter against her bowl.

A few of the men began to scoff at the idea. One seemed particularly doubtful. "Winterfell destroyed? And with what? The Warrior's army? Take your stories somewhere else, Egan. I'm looking for a _real_ job."

"By the Seven, I swear it! The King had a rider return who'd gone to spy out what was happening since they hadn't heard anything after Theon Turncoat took over. The rider returned this morning with the news. Everything was burnt to the ground."

"Who did it?"

"No telling. Says there was no sign of no one."

"What of the crippled lord? And the other little one?" Sandor felt the little bird clutch onto his arm, waiting for an answer just as he and the rest of the table were.

"No sign of them neither."

Sansa turned into a dead weight against his arm. He knew he had to get her out of the room and quickly. He got her by the waist, pulled her from the bench, and led her to the stairs at the opposite side of the room. Once they got into the shadow of the stairwell, the little bird's legs seemed to give out, and he had to carry her the rest of the way. He could already feel her tears soaking his tunic and her sobs vibrating against his chest.

He kicked their door open and sat her down on the bed. Instead of letting him go when he dropped her, Sansa continued holding his tunic tightly. Sandor looked down and noticed her white knuckles, while her sobs became louder now in the room. He began prying her fingers off his clothes, whispering, "I have to bar the door, little bird. Just let me go for a moment. I'll be right back." She sobbed loudly again and let him go.

Sandor barred the door in a hurry, then made his way back to her, as she began hacking and about to vomit. He sprawled himself out on the floor and pulled the chamberpot from below the bed. He knelt beneath Sansa and held it under her chin. She grasped it and began retching into it.

Without even thinking about it, he began rubbing her back, and he felt each sob rip through her. Gods, it killed him to see her like this. He hated himself for treating her so harshly throughout the day. In between his thoughts, her racking sobs continued, and she had trouble catching her breath. He pulled the chamberpot from her and tilted her chin up.

"You have to breathe," he said. Looking straight into her grief-stricken face was terrible. He looked down in dismay, wondering what the hell he could do to help her. "Breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth." Instead, she held on to him tightly again and rested her forehead on his shoulder. Her breaths came even shallower now. She gasped against him, and he began holding her waist, trying to bring her closer. "Breathe, little bird. Just follow me." Sandor breathed deeply through his nose, then exhaled into her hair. After a few tries, she began following him. He felt her chest press against his when they both inhaled, and he was glad she was finally regaining some control.

Sansa moved herself off him and looked into his eyes. He saw her chin still trembling and her lips trying to form words. "My brothers," she rasped between more sobs. "My little brothers." She whimpered against him and pulled him close, her hand pressing against the back of his neck and her face tucked into the crook of his shoulder. "My home," she whispered. She fell silent then, but he could still feel her shaking against him.

"Who would do this?" She looked up at him imploringly. He always told her the truth; he would know how such a thing could happen. Sansa could hardly wrap her mind around it all. And Theon Turncoat? What did that mean? She was captured in the Red Keep and knew nothing of her family, and now she learnt it all in the public room of a roadside inn.

Sandor only shook his head at her. Then, quietly answered while pushing her hair from her face, "Anyone would do this. The world is awful, little bird." Her chin began trembling again, and she pulled him closer, weeping against his neck, his shoulders, his cheek. He stayed pressed against her, rubbing her back and running his fingers through her hair. He didn't know how long they stayed together, until her weeping had finally begun to die down to silent tears.

"Want me to get you some water?"

"Yes, please," she whispered into his ear and let go of him. Sandor walked over to their washbasin and hoped this water was drinkable. He filled a cup laying by the bowl and brought it to Sansa. She drank and thanked him, then began unlacing her boots and dress. She finished and lied down on the bed, still sniffling from time to time.

Sandor reached over to pull one of the pillows from the bed, but when he did, she held his wrist and shook her head. He understood, although he didn't understand why she would want him _closer_ now, after the day they had and the news they learned. He obeyed her nonetheless, like the good watchdog he was. He pulled his boots off and lied down next to her. Adding to his surprise, she scooted nearer to him and wrapped her arm around his chest, which led him to pull her waist closer.

Their noses touched, and he saw her watery eyes search his face, roaming across his scars and settling at his eyes for a moment before she closed her own. He felt the pressure of her cheek against his burnt one and a small sigh brush the hair around his neck. She pulled back after a few moments and stared into his eyes again. Her blue eyes were still leaking with tears, as she repeated her words from that morning, "You know I wouldn't survive this journey without you."

Sansa saw his eyes widen and felt his breathing grow shallow. He understood her now.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: This chapter is a bit shorter than my usual fare, as well as the next chapter. Quite a few things happen in this chapter and the next that I wanted to isolate rather than pack into one massive chapter. Hope you all enjoy!**

"What do you want of me, little bird?" After this night, Sandor had to know exactly what she was after. What was her plan? Of the Lannisters he'd served, he understood rather quickly that all things came at a price. A Lannister always pays his debts. How did a Stark's mind work though?

Amidst her sorrow, Sansa wanted to answer this new question properly. Her little brothers were dead. Her sister was missing. Her home was in ruins. She needed a few small truths to hold on to.

"I want to know why you came to my room the night of the battle," she whispered. "I want to know why you're still with me when you could've left me to any of my brother's bannermen by now." As she spoke, she sidled closer to his body, gripping the back of his tunic and pressing her face to his chest. Then, from his chest, he heard her whimper and say, "I want to know why I should live and be free when my siblings are dead...or lost."

She felt him reach down between them and press his fingers under her chin, lifting her eyes up straight toward his. He brushed the tears from her cheeks and took a few moments looking at her, past her, then at their own bodies pressed toward each other. Sandor felt as if answering her questions would kill him, or at least the only part of him anyone ever found useful: the Hound. Then, he looked at Sansa again and saw her grief-stricken face. He knew he had to give her something or someone. He decided that he'd sacrifice the Hound to her. He rubbed her back, while he thought of how to answer. How can a dog comfort a wolf scattered from her pack?

"Do you know my sigil?"

"Yes," she whispered back. "Three dogs on a field of yellow."

"Aye, that's the one," he paused, then plunged ahead. "My father's father was kennelmaster at the Rock. One autumn year, Lord Tytos came between a lioness and her prey. The lioness didn't give a shit that she was Lannister's own sigil. Bitch tore into my lord's horse and would have done for my lord too, but my grandfather came up with the hounds. Three of his dogs died running her off. My grandfather lost a leg, so Lannister paid him for it with lands and a towerhouse, and took his son to squire. The three dogs on our banner are the three that died, in the yellow of autumn grass. The three that died killing a lion...and now we kill for a lion." He chuckled to himself. "There were also three in my pack: myself, Gregor, and my sister."

He had a sister? Sansa almost forgot her grief for a moment and tried to look into his downcast eyes. She'd only ever heard of his brother. She clung even closer to him now and nudged his chin up with her nose, bidding him continue. The dog understood the wolf's gesture and did.

"I found her drowned in the river near our keep. She was about your age," he whispered. "Our maester said there were no signs of struggle, but I swam with her in that river countless times. Gregor knew how I loved her. He killed her, just like he took that toy knight from me and my face with it."

Sansa noticed his chest heaving and his breathing grew erratic. In the growing darkness of their room, she could just make out his eyes shimmering. She drew her hand from his chest and pressed it to his face, running her fingertips across the ridges of his burns. After a moment, she felt his wet tears slide through the rivulets of his scars and collect under her fingers. Suddenly, he gasped a deep breath, clutched her wrist almost painfully, and looked at her with what seemed like fury behind his eyes.

"You know why I ran from the battle. Those bloody flames. But you don't know that I told them all to go fuck themselves. The Kingsguard, the city, even that inbred little shit. I thought that taking the little bird from the lion's den would be my last 'fuck you,' but..." He stopped and looked toward her. Sansa's breathing had grown deep and calm, her eyes still moist but fixed upon him. Then, she realized that behind his anger was anguish, as if the words he spoke physically pained him.

"While I was sitting in your room," he continued, "I thought of my sister for some reason, and then I remembered how I stood there in my white cloak and watched that fucking toad hit you and drag his dagger down the back of your dress. I had done with standing to one side. No, you were leaving with me." Sandor pulled her closer, his grip tightening on her waist. He looked her straight in the face and rasped, "I'm _still_ with you and haven't given you to your bannermen because I told you that I would take you home. I've never taken a vow in my life, but I see that as a vow. I mean to see it through."

Sandor couldn't answer her last question about why she should survive. He hardly knew why he still lived, burnt and broken, while the rest of his family died in "accidents" similar to his sister's death. He hoped perhaps they'd both understand why they survived in the course of their journey together or apart. So instead of answering her, he nuzzled his face into her fiery hair, breathing her scent deeply and pressing his lips to her hairline. He felt her press her nose and lips to his neck, then settle in for the night.

From the darkness and the silence, he then heard her ask one more question. "You'll join my brother's cause, won't you?"

He hesitated for a few heartbeats. Images flashed through his mind of what he always imagined the Wall would look like and his new brothers in the Night's Watch. Those images quickly receded and were replaced with battles on lands he knew all too well, Stark banners around him.

"I will, little wolf." Sansa said nothing, but seemed to hug him closer after he answered. Yet, he still wondered which brother he really meant: the Young Wolf or the Bastard of Winterfell.

* * *

Sandor awoke the next morning alone in their bed, but he heard the soft tinkling of water across the room and assumed Sansa was washing the night from her face. He almost didn't want to hope, but he thought that something more than shared sorrow occurred the previous night. She had pressed herself so tightly to him and stayed that way throughout the night. He woke briefly while she still slept, and her face rested on his shoulder, her hair wrapped around his arm, and her small hand splayed against his chest. They had slept near each other on many a forest floor over the past few weeks, but never like this.

Fuck, what was he thinking? He pressed his hands against his face and rubbed his eyes, drawing himself into a stronger wakefulness. She lost her brothers and her home last night, dog. You were just a body to cushion the fall. Gods, he had to keep his fantasies locked tight in his dreams. That's the only place where a girl like Sansa Stark would be over eager to fuck the likes of him.

He pushed himself from the bed and looked toward her. Her shift hung off one shoulder, while she dragged a wet rag across the other. Sandor looked down again, knowing it would be best for them both if he didn't look, but then his eyes, apparently of their own volition, wandered back toward her, as she threw more water on her neck and wiped her skin. Sansa caught him watching her in the reflection of the mirror. He noticed her cheeks blush, but she kept at her task and said, "Good morning, Sandor."

Sansa felt slightly embarrassed about last night. Her grief, their closeness, his confessions. She knew what she wanted to do about her brothers and Winterfell, but she did not know what to do about this man who'd become so dear to her in the past few weeks and especially in the last twelve hours. Then, she saw him walk toward her with a somewhat determined look on his face. She stared at him questioningly, but he kept his eyes averted from hers. When he reached her, he brushed his fingertips over the shoulder she'd just bathed in water, still bare without her shift. She sucked in a quick breath and continued watching as he bent his neck and pressed his lips to her shoulder. She let go the breath she'd taken when he kissed her again and again, up her collarbone and to the base of her neck. Then, she heard him whisper, "Good morning, Sansa."

She stilled instantly. Sandor kept his face turned down; he wanted to savor this last moment near her skin before she shoved him away. He hardly even decided to touch her before he was across the room with his lips pressed to her damp skin. Then, just as suddenly, he felt her nails rake through his hair and her cheek resting against his. She lightly kissed the skin beneath his ear and drew back from him, her face stretched in a wide grin.

"You've finally said my name," she said.

"Aye," he chuckled. _And kissed your bare skin, but no matter._ "I figured you're more wolf than bird." Her smile grew even broader and more brilliant then. "Finish washing up. We need to be off soon. The roughest terrain still lies before us." He was almost at the door, but then he turned around and asked, "You feeling alright this morning? After-after everything last night..."

Her smile faltered. She looked down at her hands, then up at herself in the mirror. Sandor watched as her eyes grew hard. She turned toward him and answered, "I'll be better when we reach my brother's army...and march North to find whoever did this." They spent a few moments staring at each other, understanding one another, then he nodded and made his exit.


	7. Chapter 7

Since their night in Pinkmaiden, Sandor had such highs and lows that Sansa hardly knew when to speak to him and when to keep her mouth shut. She was thankful that he had been with her when she heard the news about her brothers and Winterfell, and she felt almost honored to learn about his lost sister. Aside from helping her understand why he cared for her, Sandor's story helped her realize that he was alone with a beloved sister dead. She saw her new, still aching pain in his old, scarred pain.

Before that night, she already saw him as something more than a protector, but now she understood what that "something more" entailed and so did he. They both shrinked from whatever laid before them. While Sansa tried to smooth the terrain with words or touches as they rode, Sandor seemed only to fall further into himself for the most part.

_Gods, but she wouldn't stop touching him._ Sandor felt on the verge of regretting his kiss on her shoulder because it seemed to have opened the floodgates for her own small signs of affection. It was either fiddling with his hands as they rode or pressing herself too close to him in the evenings, complaining about the cool air. She was a Northern wolf; he doubted she needed a dog to keep her warm. Her small smiles when she looked up at him only showed her true plan. He always quickly looked the other way, remembering that she was young, a maiden, and not his own.

When the nights came, however, and they settled for sleep, he could never stop himself from reaching across her bedroll and pulling her closer to him. He'd sometimes press his lips to the back of her neck or inhale the scent of her hair, but either way, he knew that he wouldn't sleep now if he couldn't feel her back against his chest and his legs clashing with her own.

Sansa still cried during their first few nights after Pinkmaiden, but he always held her closer and whispered in her ear. Whispered how they were near the Young Wolf, whispered how they'd find the ones who killed her little brothers, how he'd track them down if he had to. He whispered the only things a man of wars and battles knew and could offer her at such a moment. Yet, she seemed to find solace in his words and often drifted off to sleep with a polite thank you on her lips.

After another fortnight riding and sleeping in what little brush they could find, they had finally reached the hills that scored the heart of the Westerlands to the Riverlands. They had crossed the Red Fork and the River Road without incident a few days before, and Sandor now led Stranger through the valleys toward Ashemark and whatever lied around it—hopefully, Robb Stark and his Northern army.

As they passed through the hills and stopped to rest within the peaceful valleys, Sansa noticed how Stranger's pace slackened. Sandor had always ridden his destrier hard throughout the day, so that Stranger let off a nice sheen of sweat by the time the day ended. Now, Stranger stopped for the night comfortably as did his master.

On one such night, Sansa and Sandor sat near a fire after finishing their meager dinner of rabbit and berries. Sandor sat brooding on a log near her, as was his custom now, while she waited for sleep to come by braiding and unbraiding her hair.

Sandor watched her from where he sat. She faced the fire, but he could see every flip of her fingers as she performed her little nightly ritual with her back against the log. When he allowed his eyes to unfocus, he sometimes mistook the flames for her hair. He wondered how she could twist fire and braid it without getting burnt.

"How'd your hair get that color?"

His question startled her from her task. She frowned, wondering why he was thinking about that now.

"My mother is a Tully. I have her hair, as does my brother Robb." His only reply was a grunt, but she wanted to hear his voice again, wanted to draw him into conversation. She turned toward him with a smile and continued. "Although my uncle once told me another story about why my hair was this color."

Gods, she looked beautiful, beaming up at him like that. Her face fell in the shadow the fire cast, but the flames still crackled around her hair, lighting her up.

"My uncle Benjen is a brother of the Night's Watch," she went on. Sandor instinctively looked down. Could she tell that he'd been thinking of joining that force? Did she guess the reason why he'd slackened his pace in the last few days? "He says that the wildlings think a woman with red hair was kissed by fire. It means good luck."

"Does that mean I've been kissed by fire?" Sandor snorted. "It hasn't been very lucky, I'll tell you that."

She looked at him with a furrowed brow, then said, "You don't have red hair, Sandor."

He roared with laughter at that and slid onto the floor beside her. When he opened his eyes to look at her, he saw her smiling as well. "I meant _this_, Sansa," he said, while pointing at his scars. Her smile immediately fell, and he knew that she was inwardly berating herself for her mistake.

_I'm so bloody stupid._ The Queen was right. Joffrey was right. How could she have said such a thing to him? "I didn't think of that. Forgive me." She looked down into her lap and began chewing at her bottom lip. Silence fell between them, and they sat together with only the sounds of the fire.

How could she have forgotten his scars? He saw them every day. Even without a looking glass, he knew they were still there, gruesome to behold and frightening those around him. As he sat next to her now, his burnt side was nearest her. He wanted her to look and see and understand. Perhaps the play of the fire against the scars would help. Then, as if she could hear his thoughts, he felt her eyes upon him. They were a heavy weight against his skin, but he kept his eyes down, giving her a good look.

"Perhaps it has been lucky. You just don't know it yet," she whispered. She scooted closer to him, as he stared up at her incredulously. She lightly placed a hand on his chest to steady herself and another on the unscarred side of his face. She could see the sheer panic in his eyes. He moved to rise, but before he did so, she swiftly brought her lips down upon his and kept them there for a moment. When he didn't move, she pressed against him harder and bunched the fabric of his tunic in one hand, while with the other, she ran her nails up his beard and into his hair.

His lips felt rough; for although his scars didn't reach there, his lips were chapped by the wind and hard against her own. The corners of her mouth scratched against his beard, and for a moment, she again felt the gentle dabbing of his coarse handkerchief that day on the battlements with Joffrey. She wanted to feel that gentle roughness,_ his_ gentle roughness again and again.

She pressed herself still closer, and they both slid from their place against the log down onto the forest floor. Her legs tangled with his own, but she broke from his mouth to catch her breath. As she looked down upon him, he kept his eyes closed and licked his lips. He opened his eyes only slightly to thread his fingers through her hair and pull her back down towards him. When they were only a hair's breadth apart, he whispered, "Open your mouth."

The little bird did as he bid, and he felt her warm, sweet breath upon his lips right before pressing his mouth to hers and pulling her bottom lip between his teeth. She held him tighter and tried to do the same with his lips when he let her go. He groaned and pulled her closer, his hands tangling in her hair, then licked her lips first to see if she understood. She did and opened her mouth slightly more this time. He took the invitation and plunged inside, searching for her own tongue, but she found him first, proving herself to be a little she-wolf.

She whimpered at the contact and clung to him even more fiercely, while he kept one hand in her hair and the other began moving down her back, mussing her dress and pressing her body to his. They held each other almost desperately, each wanting more from the other. She moaned when he pushed deeper into her mouth, and he growled when she let him.

She ripped her mouth away again, gasping for air, and he felt bereft immediately, but took comfort in her heaving chest pressing against his own. Through her slip and his own tunic, he felt the hard tips of her nipples. Before he could get used to that wonderful sensation though, she surprised him again. She began kissing his face, his scars, from the corner of his mouth up to his temple. When she reached that, she pushed his hair to the side and continued kissing up to the worst of his scars. _Kissed by fire_, he thought. _Please don't stop_. As if hearing his thoughts, he felt the tip of her nose against his skin, then suddenly he felt her tongue again, as she licked up the side of his face.

Sandor growled from the pain and pleasure of what she'd just done, then quickly flipped her over and held his body on top of hers. They were closer to the fire now, and its light played against her impish grin. "You shouldn't provoke a dog, girl," he rasped.

"And what can a dog do to a wolf like me?" Her grin grew even wider then, and he knew exactly what he'd do.

With the flames' light against his skin, he looked even more fearsome than she'd ever seen him. Shockingly, she felt a growing wetness between her legs at the sight of him like that, looming over her with his scars drowned in flame. He responded to her question by lowering his head to her chest and ripping the laces of her dress open with his teeth. She gasped as the fabric ripped, and her breasts spilled out for him. He growled low in his throat and took one nipple in his mouth, sucking it harshly, while rubbing her other breast with his calloused sword hand. Between gasping breaths, she ground his name out between her lips, which only seemed to goad him on.

He continued laving her breasts with his tongue and massaging them with his hands, then she felt his hips move against her and knew the meaning of the hardness that pressed against her thigh. She soaked her smallclothes even further and moaned at the thought of what he was doing and wanted to do. She scratched her nails along the back of his head and neck, pulling him up toward her mouth, then kissed him deeply, trying to tell him that she wanted him too.

Sandor broke from her lips, and rested his head in the crook of her neck. He couldn't stop his hips from surging forward against her. His cock was aching to a point that almost made tears leak from his eyes. He groaned with need and rasped against her neck, "Seven hells. You taste so fucking good, my little she-wolf."

Sansa now wanted to see what he tasted like. As she dipped her hand between them to reach the hem of his tunic, she began wondering where this would lead and how it would affect her. Her mother and septa had always told her how important this moment would be, but it always included her lord husband. Those voices and rules faded, however, when she reached the end of his tunic and felt his warm skin with her fingertips.

She pressed both hands to his body and ran them upward, pushing his tunic up as well. He sat up and lifted his arms, as she reached his shoulders and pulled it off him. They both sat facing each other, and she gave him a few shy smiles, while running her hands across his chest and pushing her fingers through the hair she found there. She crawled onto his lap and wrapped her legs and arms around him, then began kissing him slowly across his shoulders and chest. He exhaled against her and began kissing her shoulders as well, just as he did in Pinkmaiden that morning. He pushed her hair out of the way and continued kissing around her neck, eventually biting and sucking her earlobe.

She sighed and whispered his name against his chest. "Sandor," she said again when he sucked the skin pressed to her pulse. "Sansa," he moaned when she found his nipple and tried mimicking what he'd done with her. "Sandor, please," she whimpered when she pushed her cunt against his straight cock, moaning as they touched.

Their own voices and sounds surrounded them, perhaps that's why he hadn't heard the footsteps approaching and only felt them when a hard boot landed on his side and pushed him away from Sansa. Her scream and the sound of steel being unsheathed pierced the air after that.

The man standing above him grabbed Sansa, that beautiful fiery girl he'd fallen in love with, and twisted one hand into her hair, pulling her up. "I guess fucking a Lannister runs in the family," the man sneered. "Although I have to tell you, my lady, at least your mother has better taste than a dog."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Sorry for the delay on this chapter! First week of the semester is always crazy. Hope you all enjoy! :)**

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Sandor scrambled toward where he was sitting with Sansa before, where his sword lay, but at his slightest move, another blade reached out and rested against his neck.

"Looking for this?" Two other men stood behind him. The one who spoke smiled down at him and held Sandor's own sword in his hand. As Sandor glowered up at him, he noticed more men surrounding them-three more to make the full count seven. Fuck...what had they walked into?

"You'd think that a man with your...injuries...would remember to put a fire out when the night came," the man holding Sansa said. "How did you get those scars anyways?"

"Your mother got too excited while I ate her cunt." Thankfully, his answer goaded the man enough for him to let Sansa go and stalk toward him. Sandor took a hard blow to the face and spit some blood on the ground, but when he raised his eyes, he saw Sansa tying the laces to her dress, sitting slightly closer to the log than before. _Good she-wolf_, he thought.

"We'll see what Lord Frey thinks of your jokes soon enough," the man said and spit on Sandor before walking back to Sansa. She was surprised to hear this man's last words, but she kept her resolve nonetheless. Once he neared her, he looked down at her again, then sneered at Sandor. "You're lucky this girl is important or we'd see what happens when _I_ eat _her_cunt."

Sansa quickly drew the dagger from her sleeve and pressed it hard to the man's throat, while she pulled on his arm and pinned him to the ground. She had one knee digging into his chest to keep him down, just as Sandor had taught her. The other men surged forward but stopped when her voice pierced the air. "I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell, daughter to Eddard Stark and sister to your King! Tell me why my brother's own bannermen would threaten my person, and I shall spare your life."

The man smiled up at her and replied, "We are fighting for Lord Frey now, my lady, not your wolf brother."

"Lord Frey is one of the Young Wolf's bannermen now, you fucking arse," Sandor yelled, still with a sword pressed to his throat.

"Not anymore," the man replied. Then, he turned his eyes toward Sansa, looking her dead in the face. "Not when your mother lets the Kingslayer free, and your brother weds some foreign bitch." Sansa's face must've shown the shock she felt because this Frey fighter began softly laughing.

"Just take the bloody dagger from her, Willam. She won't do a thing," the man holding Sandor said. At that, Sansa shook the shock from her face, pressed the dagger harder into the man's skin, and saw the blood trickle down onto the blade.

"No, no," Willam yelled back. "This one's a real wolf. Might as well keep her happy. Rivers, tell the tale she wants."

"Aye," Rivers, a man off to the side of the main group, replied. "Lord Frey and Lord Karstark have left your brother's cause, m'lady, for the reasons my friend Willam here has so plainly told you. Lord Frey has called his men back to The Twins. Lord Karstark is raiding the Riverlands, trying to find the Kingslayer."

Sansa looked over at Sandor, now with three men surrounding him, and saw an incredulous look on his face. She also knew this couldn't be true. How could Robb break his oath to the Freys? Why would her mother let the Kingslayer loose? As if again reading her thoughts, Sandor chimed in.

"Why would Lady Stark allow the Kingslayer to go free? What good would that do? A hostage exchange?"

"That's the way the old fish put it," Rivers replied. Sandor noticed Sansa's grip tighten on her dagger at the man's words. "He was charged to go to King's Landing and bring this one and her little sister back to the King in the North. She claims a mother's grief bid her do it." The men around them began to laugh at the last comment.

"Aye, a mother's grief," commented another man. "That's what brought her to the Kingslayer not once but twice in the night."

"And that's what we know of," sneered Willam. Sansa looked down at him, knowing what his words meant. She felt her blood rage and finally understood Sandor when he spoke of battle and the sweetness of killing. She knew that after his insults toward her brother and her mother, this man deserved death. Then, she looked over at Sandor, his face fiercely set against the men around him, the sword at his throat, and knew that if she killed this man, Sandor would die for it. She was a prize for Lord Frey after her brother's betrayal, but Sandor was just a Lannister dog to them, fit only for killing.

"What would Lord Frey want with me?" Sansa asked, and Sandor wondered where she was going with this.

"Penance for your brother's broken oath," Willam replied. "If I remember correctly, the bargain also included your sister. She was to marry one of Lord Walder's grandsons, but I'm sure my lord would much rather see one of his heirs married to the eldest daughter of Winterfell."

"How would a soldier know so much?"

"I'm squire to Ser Ryman, my lady," he answered. "The heir to the Crossing. His troops lie just beyond the ridge. You would have run right into them in the morning. So you see, you and your dog have no options here."

Sansa knew he was right. There were a small group of men around them already, and although Sandor could fight through most of them, they could not make it past all these Freys. She must bend for a moment and put on the mask she'd grown so comfortable with in King's Landing.

Robb had betrayed his bannermen and apparently married a woman with no ties to the North or the Riverlands, to say nothing of the Freys. Her mother was accused of much as well. Sansa knew the hyperbole that went into these men's words, but she did not doubt that her mother had indeed let the Kingslayer free...so that her daughters may return to her. _Family Duty Honor_. Those were her mother's words, and she saw them in her actions. Her mother balked at the consequences of her actions, knowing family always came first. Sansa smirked to herself a moment and thought, _These men are right. I have much in common with my mother...perhaps too much._

"You will take me to the Twins then," she said clearly, while easing herself off the man's chest and sliding her knife away from his throat. "I shall answer for my brother's betrayal as best I can. As you say, if Lord Walder cannot have a King, perhaps he would not mind bending to the level of a princess." She stopped for a moment and looked over at Sandor, whose face told how shocked he felt. Her heart sank at his look, but she urged herself forward. "I only ask that you let Clegane go free. He has forsworn the Lannisters and bears no allegiance to any army. I am sure he will ride far from here and not bring harm to your men."

Sandor forgot the steel at his throat and the men around him, as he watched his wolf turn into a little bird again. He could not believe she'd stoop to this, just to save the neck of her obviously idiotic king brother. He knew the last command she gave to the Freys was also meant for him. Her eyes bore into him now, willing him to go peacefully and save himself.

"Aye," Willam said, while dusting the dirt from his clothes and taking the dagger from Sansa's hand. "We have no need of dogs at The Twins. He'll make no great prize." Willam grabbed Sansa's wrist after this pronouncement and began pulling her away. Sansa felt the pull and looked her last upon the man who'd saved her from the Lannisters and almost, _almost_brought her back to her family. Her tears threatened to spill onto her cheeks, but she willed them back and smiled softly at Sandor instead, hoping that he'd see the gratitude there and the love. Her smiles must have some other effect upon him, however, for she'd never seen a man react as loudly and as violently against one as he did now.

Sandor couldn't bear it all. They'd come this far and were merely a day or two away from her brother, but now it was all slipping from his fingers. Must everything that he cherished be dashed from his hands? With a roar that grew from his heart's blood, he smashed his elbow into the man holding his sword and ripped it from his fingers. As the man doubled over, Sandor knelt and swung his longsword against his legs, severing one limb and swiftly moving on to his next opponent.

"Sandor, NO!" He heard her yell, but he paid it no heed. He had six more men to kill, and he must focus now as they all collapsed upon him, all except the man holding Sansa. If he could just get to him...

Sansa screamed and screamed, but he wouldn't listen. Willam had to hold her fiercely to keep her from moving toward Sandor. She tried to wrest herself from his hands but to no avail. She was condemned to watch, as Sandor killed another man right when a soldier behind him thrust his dagger forward and ripped the flesh on the side of his neck. Sansa grew frantic then and began clawing and biting at the arms of her captor

Sandor roared once more and spun toward the man who'd delivered the blow to his neck. With one downward cut, he ripped through the soldier's mail and leather, opening him from chest to hip. He wiped the blood that was now spilling onto his shoulder and prepared himself for the next three men moving towards him when he heard Willam's voice again.

"This wolf's gone wild," he yelled over Sansa. "Kill him already! I'm taking her back to the camp."

Sandor almost lost his wits when he heard that, followed shortly by Sansa's pleas and cries. "Nooo! Sandor, please!" Willam lifted her over his shoulder and began stalking toward the trees beyond. As he watched her disappear into the wood, Sandor grew frantic and began attacking his opponents with more fury than focus. The two soldiers left continued to engage him; they were the man they called Rivers and another. Sandor could already feel the loss of blood from his neck, and his hands were growing slack on the hilt of his sword.

He advanced toward the last two and tried to find a weak spot in their forms or their armor. One of them parried a blow that he thought would surely take his arm off, and before he could swipe down quick enough, Rivers plunged his dagger into Sandor's thigh and buried it deep. Sandor howled in pain, and his legs gave way from under him. Rivers followed him to the ground and twisted the knife until Sandor couldn't help but drop his sword and lay limp against the ground. When Rivers saw this, he pulled his knife out and the blood flowed freely from Sandor's leg.

"Should we finish him?" the man with Rivers asked.

"No," he coldly replied. "No mercy for a Clegane. Let this dog bleed out." He spat on Sandor's body, and they both walked away.

Sandor pulled his body toward the log he had been sitting on before. He laid his back against it and tried to staunch the wound with his hands. He looked around him and noticed the little bird's bundle of clothes still lying on the other side of the log. He saw a piece of fabric poking from it and pulled it toward him. It was the only other shift she'd brought with her. He ripped it in two and ripped another strip from the hem. As painful as it was, he lifted his leg and passed the fabric around his thigh, tying it with a knot on the top.

He let out a loud breath then and slumped even lower against the log. The fire had already died down to mere embers, but he looked past the dead bodies and closely at the disarrayed ground near the small flames. He wondered whether the scattered leaves there were caused by the melee or the twisting and turning of his body against the little bird's before those bastards came and took her.

He felt a hard lump growing in his chest, which eventually escaped his mouth as a broken sob. He crushed the leaves in his hands and continued sobbing. They were so fucking close to her brother. And he would've stayed with her, he knew it. Fuck the Night's Watch, his brother, and all the rest of it. Just a few moments more and he could have had her for his own right then, and she would have let him-would have _wanted_it. He would have never left her after that, probably would not have been able to leave her before that either.

He groaned louder, and through clenched teeth, he moaned, "Mercy. Bleeding gods, give me mercy."


	9. Chapter 9

**_A/N: _****Yes, I am alive! I am so very sorry for the terribly long wait for this chapter. I had most of it already written when I previously updated, but work and school unfortunately got in the way of me finishing it. Since both those things involve crazy amounts of writing, the last thing I want to do when I get home is write some more, so this was shoved to the back of the mind. I want to say THANK YOU to those who continued to favorite and follow this story when it may have seemed like I abandoned it. Also, I want to give a special thanks to those who've PM'd me asking when I'll be updating again. You all gave me the encouragement to get back to this. This story will NOT be abandoned...it just might move more slowly than some other wonderful SanSan work that's being posted lately.**

**Hope you all enjoy the chapter!**

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_Gods, they were going to kill him._ Sansa continued to struggle against the tight hold of her captor, but he only laughed and held her tighter. Sandor would have told her to stay focused, remember his weak points, and strike intelligently, but she couldn't. Not now. Not when he could be dying in the trees behind her.

She allowed herself to be taken again, but he couldn't. He didn't understand how the game is played when you're a woman. Bowing and obeying was sometimes as strong a move as defying those around you. Sansa realized this from Cersei Lannister, a woman who never tried the former, always in favor of the latter. Sansa knew her part, though, and planned to play it deftly. Now, Sandor might be dead though, and all these machinations and plots had fallen by the wayside. She hardly knew herself, but now at the thought of his loss, she realized he was the endgame. Her goal if she ever got out of the game alive.

Sansa struggled against Willam, but for what? Sandor's fight had driven all her inner fight away.

Once she felt them nearing the main Frey encampment, Sansa willed herself to calm down; she would not be hauled into her enemy's camp like a prisoner.

"Please set me down," Sansa said. "I have done struggling."

"Oh, have you?" Willam replied. She could smell his coarse breath so close to her face, but tried to look calmly into his small, black eyes. "Well, if you promise to be a good girl, I'll just set you down then." He did so, and Sansa quickly flattened her skirts and hair. She felt Willam's eyes upon her, but was determined to keep her own trained straight ahead.

"Already missing your Lannister dog?" he chuckled. "I wouldn't pine too much, m'lady. I'm sure Ser Ryman wouldn't want another Tully woman around, mooning over some Lannister."

"I'm not a Tully," she replied coldly. "I'm a Stark."

"Aye," he said. "And you'd best be remembering that yourself. For if you weren't, you'd be dead same as your dog."

As they walked into the Frey encampment, Sansa noticed many eyes suddenly descend upon her, men she'd never met but who apparently knew who she was. "How like she is to the old trout," she heard one soldier comment, while those around him began to snicker. "Where did you find that one, Willam?" another one called, but Willam only smiled and waved his hand. Sansa filtered all their voices out, then focused her eyes forward, trying to ignore their watery eyes, their sour stink, their grating voices.

She saw the large tent Willam was leading her to and readied herself for the commander she'd meet there. Ser Ryman, was it? Willam dropped his name during the earlier skirmish, but the name meant nothing to her. Sansa only knew her father's bannermen by name, and what she knew of the Freys from her mother's comments was hardly favorable.

Nonetheless, she must remember her courtesies, especially now. As Sansa thought this, Sandor's defeated face flashed into her head—the shocked look he had when she gave in to the Frey demands. _I cannot fight like you can, Sandor._

"Wait here, my lady," Willam said, when they finally reached Ser Ryman's tent. "I shall alert him of your presence first, then call you in." Willam entered and left Sansa in darkness. Two guards flanked the opening to Ser Ryman's tent. They both gave her an interested look, but she did nothing more but return the look for a moment then continue looking forward. She could hear voices within, growing louder as the conversation progressed. It would seem that Ser Ryman was as shocked about her capture as the rest of the camp.

Willam pulled the tent's opening apart and beckoned her in. The candles within blinded her for a moment, but when she regained her sight, Sansa looked upon a fat, grotesque-looking man. She can only recall Lord Manderly as a larger man, but then Lord Manderly had always been a kindly man, while she felt that Ser Ryman's external grossness only foretold what lied beneath. His furnishings were practically bare, except for a few maps on the largest table, stained by overturned wine flagons. His dining table was still in disarray after what looked like his evening meal. A half-eaten capon, dirty plates, and more wine flagons were still scattered across the table.

Ser Ryman grinned toward her, as if she was yet another plate of delicious food, an appetizing dessert. Sansa tried to stay calm under his gaze, as she bowed to him, and said, "Ser Ryman, we have never met, but I have heard of your House's aid in my brother's campaign. I give you my thanks as the sister to the King in the North."

"Ha! Aye, King in the North," he spat. Sansa could smell the wine on his breath and noticed his slight swaying back and forth. "More like King of some foreigner's cunt." He chuckled at his own joke, and Willam joined in as well. After this remark, Sansa quelled the wolf inside her and continued chirping courtesies.

"Your squire has told me of my brother's decision in his bride. I understand how this is a slight upon you and your House, which is why I wish to treat with you and Lord Walder Frey. I know I am no King, but perhaps my marriage to one of your family would rectify whatever insult you believe my brother has imparted."

"We have already made an agreement for your sister Arya," he replied, obviously testing her. "Why should we hear your offer?"

"You obviously have not met my sister, ser," she answered with a small smile. "She would not marry against her will, and if forced, she would surely do her best to make her husband's life as torturous as all the Seven Hells." Ser Ryman only frowned at this answer, so she continued. "And forgive me, ser, but what makes you think my sister would honor this oath when it was dependent upon my brother's marriage to a Frey?"

"Then, why should I think you should be more honorable than your kingly brother?"

"You misunderstand me, ser," Sansa sweetly replied. "I do not wish to impugn my brother's actions. What he did, he did for honor's sake, I am sure of it. He is a Stark, and Winter is coming. We do not make foolish choices." If only Sansa could believe this herself. She knows her brother has made a grievous mistake, but hopefully, her pandering would ingratiate her with her captors. "Yet, I do understand how this choice could be taken by House Frey and only wish to smooth over this ruptured relationship, so that our two families may once again come together to bring down Lannister tyranny."

"Lannister tyranny, you say," he comments. "You speak as if you hated them as much as your brother. And yet, my squire tells me you were found with the Lannister Hound...and in a rather compromising position for a lady." He chuckled drunkenly again and reached out to twirl a swollen finger around her hair. Sansa shuddered at his touch, but willed herself to keep still.

"As I have already told your squire, ser," Sansa replied, "Sandor Clegane is no more a Lannister than I am. He has abandoned Joffrey Baratheon's cause and was getting me back to my family, when your men found us. He is loyal to me not the Lannisters."

"_Was_ loyal."

Sansa turned and saw the dark face and long hair of the man they called Rivers, as he walked into the tent with a smirk on his face.

"The dog is dead?" Willam asked.

"Aye," Rivers replied, "We let him bleed out." His eyes found Sansa's, and she felt as if Ser Meryn's metal fist had just slammed into her stomach. Her brothers. Her home. Now _him_. She felt defeated and deserted and alone.

With that, she turned to Ser Ryman again and, barely above a whisper, continued, "Ser, you have my terms. I know you must wish to think it over. If one of these men could see me to my quarters, I would be most appreciative."

Ser Ryman grumbled to himself, then walked over to Willam, apparently whispering directions for her "accomodations" in his ear. Sansa noticed none of this; she only stared at the ground, still digesting the news she'd just heard. Yet another death to add to her sorrows.

"Well, my lady, you will be quartered amongst the higher born men," Ser Ryman finally said. "We wouldn't want any of the others getting ideas before you've seen Lord Walder. We will meet again on the morrow and discuss our plans."

Sansa merely nodded her head, already feeling her chest constricting, foretelling the tears to come. Ser Ryman moved back toward his table still filled with food and resumed the meal Sansa's entrance interrupted. Willam walked toward her and clutched her elbow, moving her out of the tent and into the open night air again. Rivers followed closely behind them. Sansa felt his presence like a dagger in her back—the man who killed her Sandor. She knew he followed her only to augment her pain, to remind her that her only chance of rescue was gone.

Apparently news had continued to spread that Willam and his men had captured the eldest Stark girl, for when she adjusted her eyes to the darkness without, Sansa noticed a disorderly group of ugly men waiting to leer at her. Although at this moment she wanted to bow her head and mourn for those she'd lost, Sansa knew she must hold her head high. She was a Stark of Winterfell. No matter what her brother did or that her home was in ruins; the blood of the First Men flowed through her veins. She would not buckle under the weight of her captors.

Her mother used to tell her stories about her father Lord Hoster's bannermen, the Freys, and none of them cast this House in a favorable light. Sansa now recalled the many stories of how her grandfather had called his bannermen for battle, and the Freys only arrived when the outcome was sure. Her mother called their Lord the Late Walder Frey. Sansa remembered all this, as their eyes latched onto her and stared. No, she would not bow her head. She kept it high, while Willam guided her towards her tent and Rivers traded ribald jokes with the surrounding throng.

Sansa heard none of it. Her mind was beyond those trees and down that ridge, where Sandor's body lied motionless.

When she arrived at her tent, Willam ducked inside for a moment to make sure all was ready. While she waited, Sansa stood by Rivers, but she also turned her head slightly to the throng and truly looked at them for a moment. One boy stood out from the rest, perhaps because of his youth compared to the older men around him or perhaps because he was one of the few standing silent and staring at her with respect rather than sneerful disdain. He noticed her look and bowed his head almost imperceptibly. Before she could respond, Sansa felt Rivers push her into her tent and back into bright candlelight.

Although blinded for a moment, Sansa noted the spartan aspect of her arrangements for the evening and for the foreseeable future. A small cot, a washstand, a small table and a single chair were the only inhabitants of the room besides the men standing next to her. It was more than she had been used to over the past few weeks, but her mind drew back again to Sandor, as she thought that she'd rather lay on the cool, mossy ground with only his arm for a pillow.

Her tears were threatening to spill over again, so she quickly said, "I thank you for these arrangements. They are all I'll be needing now, and I plan to retire."

"Would you like food?" The bastard Rivers asked.

"No," she said. "I've already eaten." Rabbit and a shared apple with Sandor only a while earlier in this disastrous evening. Willam whispered something to Rivers, and they both chuckled.

"We'll leave you for the night then, my lady," Willam said. "Our forces continue toward The Twins tomorrow morning, so rise early with the rest and prepare for travel." Sansa merely nodded, and they finally left her alone.

She stood in the middle of the tent for a long while. Time passed as she stood there, letting her own actions and the actions of others sink in. Already, her mind was betraying her with phrases and taunts. _You should not have given in. You should have helped him fight. He died for you..._because_ of you._ She felt her chin shaking, the breakdown beginning, but her feet moved slowly to the cot they'd set up for her. Her body dropped into it, and she buried her face in her hands, trying to still the emotions that threatened to show through.

Yet, beyond all this, the regrets, the recriminations, the heartache, and the loss...she could not help but remember their last moments together. It felt almost perverse to remember Sandor's hands upon her now when she knew she was fantasizing about a dead man. Her body reacted nonetheless, and she found herself rubbing her head and wringing her hands, trying to rid herself of his touch and his taste, hoping it would make her feel less horrible or less weak.

For that brief moment, she felt like a woman, in control of her body and even in control of his, then the moment, like so many others in her life, was quickly snatched from her. She had to play the feminine role she was taught to play. _Family, Duty, Honor._ So she bowed, she chirped, and she lost the hound who'd made her feel what it was to be a wolf. A true Stark. Winter was surely coming, but while they had a fire near, she revelled with her hound and fed off the flames in his skin and his tongue.

All these emotions and sensations swam through her senses now, at a time when she should be mourning him, mourning her brothers, mourning her own sorry fate. Sansa laid back upon her cot and pulled the rough wool up to her chin. Her dress was still on, her boots as well, but she didn't care about these things. She closed her eyes, rubbing the wool against her face, imagining it was the stubble on Sandor's good cheek.

Finally, her throat swelled, and she choked out a dry sob. Stifling the sound in her pillow, she wept and she wept for him and for all the people she'd lost because the world seemed bent on proving the Hound–not Sandor, but the Hound–right. The world was made by killers, and she better start getting used to it.

* * *

The morning broke cold and damp. The camp stirring woke Sansa up before the dawn did. Her captors told her she must be ready to move when their troops did, so she pulled herself off the cot, moving toward the basin of water propped on a rudimentary washstand. She splashed the water on her face, hoping it would rid her features of their obvious lack of sleep and just-as-obvious resignation to defeat. She was sure her eyes were rimmed red and her cheeks pale, but she hadn't a mirror to check nor did she desire one.

Once she finished, she heard an odd knock on her tent's opening.

"Is my lady awake?" It was Willam. "We'll be marching momentarily, and your tent must be packed."

"Yes," she replied. "I'll be out in a moment." Sansa quickly braided her hair and stalked out into the gray morning. Willam made a cursory attempt at a bow, then directed a few men to take down her tent. An old man came forward with a horse, which Willam then led toward Sansa.

"Here," Willam said, handing the reins to her. "I assume you know how to ride."

"Yes, my father taught me."

"Ah, how nice," he mumbled, while fixing the straps and stirrups attached to the beast's saddle. As Sansa waited for Willam to put her horse to rights, she looked around and noticed that hers was one of the few tents still in place. Men on horseback were galloping through and barely took a glance at her and her captor. Then, yet again, she saw the face of the boy she noticed the previous night.

He, unlike his fellow soldiers, walked his horse slowly across the field, nearing her but not so near as to draw attention to himself. She noticed his heavy gaze upon her, and almost dropped her eyes in fear, but didn't. She was a wolf, not a bird. She would look back in every man's face from now on.

This boy's face, however, held no malice towards her. He merely looked pityingly and nodded again. She nodded as well, showing that she saw him. He smiled and began to trot forward and past her.

"You should be set, my lady." Willam's voice called her back to herself.

"Thank you," she whispered. "Where should I ride in the line of troops?"

"You'll be riding with me and my men," he said. "The same ragtag group I take with me on scouting missions or when we have to keep an eye on someone like yourself." He smiled up at her then, and Sansa did nothing but climb up on her horse's back and pull the reins toward herself.

"Stay here," he said, "and I'll be along in a moment to escort you." Sansa waited as Willam ran off, then quickly returned on the back of his own horse. He passed her and commanded, "Follow me."

Sansa led her horse behind him in a steady trot until they arrived at the group she'd be spending her time with. Like Willam said, these were surely a ragtag band of men, most of which did not even have the Frey sigil embroidered on their coats. Sellswords, she thought, and the gods knew what else. They hardly paid any mind to her, but kept their eyes bent forward. Most of the morning and afternoon passed this way.

As evening drew near, Sansa felt a terrible soreness in her thighs and hoped that their ride wouldn't last much longer. As if reading her thoughts, she noticed Willam break off from the front of the pack and lead his horse toward her.

"We'll be stopping for the evening in a moment. Your tent will be unpacked and prepared for the night, while some food will be brought to you."

"Thank you," she replied, and he rode off again to the front. Shortly thereafter, Sansa heard a horn blow far ahead of them and knew this was the signal for the troops to finally stop. She led her horse off to the side of the main line of men and slid off the horse's back. Her knees almost buckled beneath her, but she quickly gripped her saddle before she fell. At the same moment, she felt another support wrap around her waist. She looked down and noticed a pair of dirty hands there, then quickly spun and looked upon the face of the boy she'd seen that morning.

He immediately stepped back and bowed low before her. "Forgive me, my lady," he haltingly stammered. His eyes darted up and down from her to the ground, then back again. "I just noticed you stumble and thought you might require assistance."

Sansa noticed how his words seemed studied, as if he were a squire in training under a knight, trying to sound as professional as possible.

"I give you my thanks," she said with a small smile. "I noticed–"

"We don't have much time, my lady," he broke into her words, still haltingly but with determination now. His cheeks burned red as he continued, looking at the ground most of the time as he spoke. "Willam will most likely return at any moment, and I want to give you my services before he does. I am no longer allowed on my family's councils, but I know that this wedding we all are marching toward is something more." _Wedding?_ Sansa thought. _Does he mean my wedding or someone else's?_ The boy noticed her frown and answered it. "Lord Frey plans on marrying one of his daughters to your uncle Edmure, while you will also marry one of his sons. He means to have a stake in both the Riverlands and the North. I heard Ser Ryman discussing it on our ride here. I want to help you."

Sansa still stood before him, half in shock and half in bemusement at this boy's hurried words and odd manners. Yet, as she looked into his eyes and truly saw his features, she knew she was speaking to no mere boy, no stablehand, no ordinary soldier in this mass of men.

"I appreciate all this," Sansa said quietly, as her eyes darted around, looking for a sign of Willam returning. "But you still have not told me your name. How am I to trust your word without it? You obviously know more than you should." He blushed a deep red then and awkwardly bowed.

"Forgive me, my lady," he said slowly. "My name is Olyvar Frey. I squired for your brother Robb," and then he dropped his voice to an even more inaudible level, "the King in the North."


End file.
